


Bradbury's Jar Challenge Responses

by GrumpyGhostOwl



Category: Battle of the Planets, Kagaku Ninja Tai Gatchaman & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adult Content, Bradbury's Jar, Challenge Response, Drama, Garden Gnomes, Humour, Multi, Snark, Things-fall-down-go-"Boom!"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 06:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 62
Words: 67,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10531197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyGhostOwl/pseuds/GrumpyGhostOwl
Summary: A collection of responses to the weekly Bradbury's Jar challenges on Gatchamania.com and Crescent Coral Base (home of Bradbury's Contingency Jar)





	1. Bradbury's Jar #255 - Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark uses an example from history.

  
“Oh, man!” Tiny gaped at the tangle of wires that obscured most of the self-destruct device. “What are we supposed to do now?”  
  
The readout was flashing red, numbers counting down at an alarming rate.  
  
The counter raced through the ninety second mark.  
  
“There’s no time to outrun it,” Jason said grimly. “I guess we could try to survive it somehow.”  
  
Princess tugged gingerly at the wires, trying to make sense of the multi-coloured mess. “I can’t make head or tails of this!” she said. “It looks like it was put together in a heck of a hurry.”  
  
The counter read forty-five seconds and kept racing toward zero.  
  
Jason’s head came up like a wolf scenting prey. “In which case,” he reasoned, “there might not be any complicated safeguards.” He glanced at Mark. “The Gordian Knot,” he said. “Feel like conquering the world, Skipper?”  
  
“Nothing to lose,” Mark said. “Take cover.”  
  
“Mark!” Princess began to object, but Tiny pulled her away from the bomb by virtue of main strength.  
  
“Fingers crossed!” Keyop piped, his voice shaking.  
  
Mark drew his boomerang and took hold of the heavy cable which led in from the base computer. With one clean stroke, he severed it, then dove for cover, arms shielding his head.  
  
In the space between tick and tock, G-Force held their breaths, waiting for the detonation.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
Keyop dared to breathe.  
  
The Spectra base persisted in not blowing itself up.  
  
Princess let her breath out and took a deep lungful of air. “If it was going to blow, it should have done it by now,” she ventured.  
  
“Guess it worked,” Jason said. “Nice job, Mark.”  
  
Mark sagged in relief and didn’t object when Princess leaned against him and stifled a sob. “Good old Alexander the Great,” he said.  
  
“Who?” Tiny asked.  
  
“The Gordian Knot solution,” Jason said.  
  
“The what now?” Keyop asked.  
  
“Don’t look at me,” Princess said.  
  
“Old classical legend,” Jason explained. “There was this mega-complicated knot thing, and whoever managed to undo the knot would be king of this old-timey Greek kingdom. Nobody could undo it. Then along came Alexander the Great and claimed the kingdom in a single stroke.”  
  
“He figured out how to undo the knot?” Tiny surmised.  
  
“No,” Mark said. “He sliced clean through it with his **sword**.”  
  
“Huh!” Keyop said, and grinned. “That works!” His face fell. “Aw, crud. This means I’m going to have to pay more attention in History class, doesn’t it?”


	2. Bradbury’s Jar #259 - Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe they're just not very good at diplomacy.

“Can you please explain something to me?” Jason asked as he ducked back behind the wall to avoid enemy fire.  
  
Mark, who was flattened against the wall next to Jason and keeping an eye out in the other direction, let his breath out in a sigh.  
  
“Go on,” he said. “I could use a laugh around about now.”  
  
Jason dropped to one knee and fired around the corner again. There was a pained grunt from the enemy position and several bullets went high before the barrage stopped. Mark’s enhanced hearing could pick up sundry curses. He braced himself, darted forward and rolled, using his cape as a shield before leaping high and casting his boomerang.  
  
The remaining two soldiers fell back as the bladed weapon struck. Mark landed and caught the boomerang on its return arc. “Clear!” he said.  
  
Jason sauntered out from behind the wall, gun still at the ready, just in case.  
  
“How come,” he said, “whenever the Chief sends us on a ‘diplomatic’ mission, we end up in a firefight?”  
  
“That’s actually a really good question,” Mark acknowledged.  
  
“Maybe he uses a different definition of ‘diplomatic’ to the rest of us,” Jason speculated.  
  
“More likely it’s to do with the rules of **engagement** ,” Mark said. “On a diplomatic mission, I have better grounds for keeping your finger off the firing button for the bird missiles.”  
  
“You think?” Jason said with a smirk. “Good luck with that.”  



	3. Bradbury’s Jar #260 – Arctic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why DID Dr Strecker leave Galaxy Security so abruptly?

“There’s no easy way to say this,” David Anderson began.  
  
Benjamin Strecker took a breath and held it. _He knows. He knows about me and Lily. Damn. My best friend’s fiancée! How could I have been so stupid as to think he wouldn’t find out?_  
  
“I’ve decided to stop funding the Tronic Beam Project, Ben,” Anderson said.  
  
“What?” Of all the things Anderson might have said, this wasn’t what Strecker had expected. He’d never thought of David Anderson as being the vindictive type. “You’re canning my project?”  
  
“Ben, the Occupational Health and Safety team’s been over it with a fine-toothed comb. It’s just too dangerous. We can’t manage the risk well enough to justify continuing –”  
  
“Okay, maybe Center Neptune isn’t the best place for the Tronic Project,” Strecker reasoned. “Relocate me to one of the mainland facilities. You won’t have to –”  
  
“I have Doctor Singh’s report right here,” Anderson said. “He took possible relocation into account. It isn’t viable, Ben. You’re going to have to shut it down. Bert Umzabe has a whole laundry list of projects for you to choose from depending on whether you want to join a team or take the lead.”  
  
Strecker paced a few steps, glanced at the port-hole without seeing the reef outside, turned and paced back toward Anderson’s desk, fighting for control. When he spoke, his tone was chillly: “I wouldn’t have thought it of you,” he said. “I really thought you were better than this.”  
  
“Better than what?” Anderson asked, his expression blank.  
  
_Oh, you’re good. You’re really good_. Strecker kept his face immobile, refusing to let his expression betray his inner turmoil. “I quit,” he said.  
  
“You don’t have to quit!” Anderson protested. “Ben, it’s just a project –”  
  
“It’s more than that, and we both know it. You’ll have my written resignation on your desk by close of business today.” Strecker turned on his heel and left.  
  
He maintained his **Arctic** façade until he returned to his own office, where he fell into his chair and leaned over the desk, taking deep, ragged breaths. His hands shook and he fought to quell the trembling.  
  
He’d just thrown his career away for a woman.  
  
_My God,_ he mused. _I may have made the biggest mistake of my life._  
  



	4. Bradbury’s Jar #264 - Initiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time it's Keyop's turn, Chief Anderson has had a lot of practice at being embarrassed by his kids.

“It’s a rite of passage,” Jason maintained.  
  
“Just because you and I did it doesn’t make it a rite of passage,” Mark said.  
  
“Yeah,” Tiny said. “Princess never did it, and neither did I.”  
  
“That’s because you wussed out!” Jason hissed.  
  
Four-fifths of G-Force were conspiring together in their comfortable and roomy seats aboard the brand-new ISO-One, the latest and most luxurious Quanto-Tobor Multi-Modal Super-Executive Transport. ISO-One was easily twice the size of a standard M-MET. Externally she bore the gleaming white livery of the ISO and this was adorned with a large rendition of the Presidential Seal and some rather fetching go-faster striping. The interior was tricked out with every bell and whistle the designers could come up with in addition to state-of-the-art avionics, communications and security systems, the latter courtesy of Galaxy Security.  
  
Whilst this wasn’t the transport’s maiden flight by any stretch of the imagination, it was her first with the designation ISO-One. The flight itself was routine: the First Family and their guests were being flown to Camp David to celebrate Thanksgiving. Alex and Laureli Kane were travelling with their children and grandchildren and had invited the Anderson brood to accompany them. It was an invitation David Anderson would rather have declined, but when the First Lady was being so very, _very_ gracious, it was a safe bet to assume that accepting would be the lesser of two evils.  
  
“What are you boys whispering about over there?” Princess asked. Her tone was altogether too sugary and the male members of G-Force quickly attempted to acquire an appearance of collective innocence.  
  
Given the makeup of the group and the fact that Princess knew them all too well, the tactic was doomed to failure.  
  
“We’re just giving Tiny some dating tips!” Jason declared.  
  
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Princess shook her head and turned her attention back to the entertainment unit.  
  
Mark waited until he was certain Princess’ focus had shifted away from them before speaking again: “Look, Jason,” he said quietly, “when we did it, it was Chief Conway, but this is the _President_ we’re talking about!”  
  
“Doesn’t matter. You just go on up and ask the question,” Jason said. “That’s how it works.”  
  
“It isn’t nearly as bad as the question he made _me_ ask,” Mark said.  
  
“Why?” Keyop asked. “What question did you ask?”  
  
“I’m not repeating it,” Mark said. “Anyway, this is _your_ dare.”  
  
“Okay,” Keyop said. “It should be good for a laugh.”  
  
  
  
“Just give it some serious thought,” Laureli Kane said.  
  
A pair of cabin attendants served tea and coffee. David Anderson relaxed back in his seat, relieved that the Kanes appeared to have concluded a conversation he hadn’t really wanted to have. He sipped at the coffee he’d been given. It was smooth and strong, at just the right temperature.  
  
When Keyop wandered up to them, the President and the First Lady smiled indulgently.  
  
“Hello there, Keyop,” Alex Kane greeted the boy. “What brings you up here?”  
  
“Um, hello, sir. I got a question,” Keyop said.  
  
“Oh?” Kane prompted. “And what might that be?”  
  
Keyop turned to Anderson. “Dad,” he said, “what does ‘going at it like rabbits’ mean?”  
  
The adults froze for a second before Anderson carefully set his coffee cup down. “Well, Keyop,” he said, “it’s a figure of speech.”  
  
“Yeah,” Keyop said, “but what does it _mean_?”  
  
Anderson took a breath. One of _those_ questions. Well, he’d had worse, and when he thought back… _Hmmmm_ … a small core of suspicion began to coalesce in Anderson’s mind. For now, it was probably best to be truthful.  
  
“They all ask questions like this at some point,” Laureli said with a smile.  
  
“And how did you handle them, Mrs Kane?” Anderson asked.  
  
“Oh, far be it from me to interfere in anyone else’s parenting!” Laureli demurred, holding up an elegant hand. “This one’s all yours, David!”  
  
“Well?” Keyop prompted.  
  
“Rabbits,” Anderson said, “are herbivores, and as you know, a lot of predators hunt them and eat them as prey, right?”  
  
“Right,” Keyop said.  
  
“So, in order to survive as a species, rabbits need to produce a large number of offspring in order to maximise the chances of some of those offspring surviving long enough to reproduce in turn and maintain a healthy population.”  
  
“Yeah?” Keyop said.  
  
“So, they have large litters, and as such, they’ve long been associated in a number of Terran cultures with fertility.”  
  
“So…?” Keyop said.  
  
“So?”  
  
“Why do people say, ‘going at it like rabbits’?”  
  
“I suppose it must follow that if rabbits have a lot of offspring, they probably need to engage in frequent mating behaviour, but I think it’s more likely that they just have a lot of kittens in each litter. Mice actually reproduce faster than rabbits, so the fertility connotation is more of a cultural stereotype than sound scientific fact.”  
  
“So, it’s about sex, then?” Keyop inferred helpfully, radiating innocence.  
  
“Yes,” Anderson said. “When people are said to be ‘going at it like rabbits,’ it refers to an assumption of frequent sexual activity.”  
  
“To produce large numbers of offspring?” Keyop frowned.  
  
“Not necessarily,” Anderson said. “It’s more about the supposed level of enthusiasm.”  
  
“Supposed?”  
  
“The majority of normally-oriented people don’t disclose the details of their activities to others, Keyop. Physical intimacy is generally considered to be a private matter in our society.”  
  
“So, it’s kind of like one of those ‘simile’ things they taught us about in English?”  
  
“Yes. Where’d you hear it?”  
  
“Oh nowhere…” Keyop drawled, avoiding eye contact. “It was just something I heard.”  
  
“Really?” Anderson said. _Okay, kiddo. If that’s the way you want it_. “Keyop, you’ll remember from your health and hygiene classes that modern birth control methods allow humans to plan their reproduction,” Anderson said. “As to any similarities between ourselves and rabbits, I have to admit that I haven’t spent any time in the field observing the mating habits of lagomorphs. You may recall however, that I’ve watched a few _Galactic Geographic_ documentaries – usually with you. I seem to remember seeing one where the rabbits were, to coin a phrase, ‘going at it.’ The act itself, if memory serves, lasted approximately two point five seconds or so and while the participants did, I suppose, seem enthusiastic if speed was anything to go by, they both seemed completely underwhelmed by it afterward. In fact, they just went straight back to eating grass. If that’s anything to go by, then I can assure you that there’s absolutely no comparison. In fact, most animal sex seems pretty perfunctory with a few notable exceptions, so as metaphors, I find they fall way short. Take lion sex for instance: lots of growling and biting and the male lion’s expected to mate every fifteen minutes or so over the course of three days. Kind of explains why they get first bite of the carcase for the rest of the year in the first place and why in the wild, they hardly ever die of old age in the second. Elephant sex, on the other hand, is just plain freaky, because the bull elephant actually has a _prehensile_ –”  
  
“Yeahokaythanksyou’veexplaineditnow’bye!” Keyop fled.  
  
“Well, _that_ was certainly informative!” Laureli Kane declared.  
  
“Now Keyop can report back to Jason that he’s completed his dare,” Anderson said.  
  
“What does this have to do with Jason?” Laureli asked.  
  
“When Mark was ten, he interrupted a meeting with Chief Conway to ask me what a clitoral orgasm was. He could barely pronounce the term. It turned out the boys had been playing Truth or Dare and Jason had managed to hack the child-safe restrictions on our internet access. When Jason was eleven, Chief Conway was inspecting the training facility at Camp Parker and Jason asked me to explain how you caught blue balls. It turned out that they’d been playing Truth or Dare again. Tiny Harper _never_ chose Dare and Princess was too smart to play. I guess it was Keyop’s turn.”  
  
“Sort of a G-Force **initiation** rite?” Laureli inferred.  
  
“Yes. And I know exactly who came up with the dare.”  
  
“What are you going to do?” Laureli asked.  
  
“When we land,” Anderson said, “I’ll let slip to Jason that I know he was behind this, hint that I’m planning revenge, then I’ll do nothing.”  
  
“Nothing?”  
  
“Nothing. Whatever I do won’t be nearly as bad as what Jason’s imagination will come up with, and trust me, Mrs Kane, Jason has a _very_ active imagination.”  



	5. Bradbury's Jar #265 - (Image) El Cristo Roto / The Broken Christ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They do it every year.

"Leave those," Joe said as Jinpei reached for a cellophane-wrapped package in the bakery section.  
  
"You don't like sweet buns?" Jinpei inferred.  
  
"Sure I like 'em," Joe said as they pushed their shopping cart along the aisle, "but those are hot cross buns. It's too early in the year for those. They're supposed to be eaten on Good Friday."  
  
"Good what?" Jinpei asked.  
  
"The Friday before Easter," Joe explained. "They're a traditional Easter food, and it's barely the second week of January already."  
  
"So why don't you want to eat the buns early?" Jinpei pressed. He grabbed a loaf of ordinary sliced bread and lobbed it into the shopping cart. "What about this?" he asked, holding up a small loaf of raisin bread.  
  
"Yeah, that's fine," Joe said.  
  
"So..." Jinpei prompted.  
  
"So we just had Christmas, like ten days ago," Joe said.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"So it was all baby Jesus in the manger and angels and shepherds and shit, now here we are, not two weeks out, and the retail industry can't wait to execute the poor guy by nailing him to a tree and stabbing him! Way to make Baby Jesus cry, dude."  
  
"Joe-aniki?" Jinpei ventured.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're weird." 


	6. Bradbury's Jar #266 - Skunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoopsie...

Mala was on her feet as Zoltar stalked into the private quarters the siblings shared.  
  
“What in all the Galaxy is that smell?” she demanded.  
  
“Private Ing will be along shortly with some peroxide, some sodium bicarbonate and some dishwashing liquid,” Zoltar said. “Please take these things from him when he arrives and bring them to me in the bathroom.”  
  
The penultimate ruler of all Spectra trudged away in a pungent miasma of misery.  
  
Mala opened a window and sat next to it, breathing deeply of the clean mountain air until the intercom buzzer sounded. She opened the door to the sight – and _smell_ – of Private Ing, who was carrying a cardboard carton and looking utterly dejected.  
  
“Thank you, Private! Dismissed!” Mala snapped. She snatched the box out of Ing’s unresisting hands, slammed the door and coughed.  
  
The intercom sounded again.  
  
Mala opened the door a crack. “Yes?” she asked cautiously.  
  
“Your pardon, m’lady, but Lord Zoltar said I was to take his regalia and burn it,” Ing mumbled.  
  
“Very well!” Mala threw the door open and retreated down the hall as Ing, trailing odour, followed.  
  
Outside the bathroom door was a heap of purple clothing, tall red boots and a mask with upstanding purple ears, all redolent of something terribly… _organic_.  
  
“Take it – and yourself – away!” Mala ordered.  
  
Ing bundled up the regalia and fled.  
  
Mala busied herself opening a few more windows before she felt brave enough to approach the bathroom. With the cardboard box and its contents in hand, she knocked at the door.  
  
“Zoltar?” she called.  
  
“Do you have it?” Zoltar called back.  
  
“Yes,” Mala said.  
  
“Bring it in, and hurry!”  
  
Cautiously, Mala opened the door. The extraction fan was running, her brother was sitting in the bathtub, which was overflowing with bubbles, and mingled with the distressing odour of whatever it was he’d brought back with him was a more familiar scent.  
  
“How much of my bubble bath did you use?” Mala asked, frowning.  
  
“All of it,” Zoltar said.  
  
“And are those the wrappers off my bath bombs as well?”  
  
“Yes,” Zoltar said.  
  
“And that empty bottle – have you used _all of my herbal shampoo_?”  
  
“Yes,” Zoltar said.  
  
There was an empty basin on the vanity. Mala picked it up. “I take it these ingredients go in here?”  
  
“Please,” Zoltar said. “And some warm water, if you would be so kind.”  
  
When the mixture had been prepared, Zoltar began lathering it through his hair. After a few seconds, he had all but disappeared in a pile of bubbles.  
  
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Mala asked.  
  
“We were testing out that new stealth robot that Doctor Vork wanted to use to to infiltrate the secret G-Force base at Camp Parker,” the pile of bubbles said. “Vork said it was an Earth animal called a **skunk**. He said it needed to be realistic.”  
  
“A… skunk?” Mala echoed. “What is a skunk?”  
  
“Apparently, it is some kind of mustelid, not unlike our swamp-nots, only it has evolved some kind of weaponised scent gland which it uses to defend itself against predators. Vork had synthesised this ‘skunk scent’ to keep his creation from being discovered by anyone curious enough to want to take a close look.”  
  
Mala started to sigh, then thought better of it and nodded instead. “What went wrong?” she asked.  
  
“The Great Spirit didn’t like the plan,” Zoltar recounted, “so It used an energy blast to destroy Vork’s robot… and the bladder containing the synthesised odour compound exploded. Could you pass me the shower handpiece, please? I need to rinse.”  
  
“Here.” Mala handed over the shower handpiece and collected the now-empty basin. She put it back on the vanity. “If you will excuse me, brother, I will leave you in peace to finish your bath.”  
  
To her credit, Mala managed to make it all the way back to the sitting room before she started laughing.  



	7. Bradbury's Jar #267 - Choice (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls decide to have a night in.

“I can’t believe you never went to a slumber party as a kid!” Fran said, taking Princess’ arm. “We’ve seriously got to bring you up to speed!”  
  
Officers’ quarters at Camp Parker were nothing to write home about. The Chief of Staff’s protection detail had permanent quarters in a blocky, two-storey building a few minutes’ walk from the main residence. The building resembled a no-frills motel, with identical one-bedroom apartments on two floors. Each apartment had a bedroom, semi-en-suite bathroom and a living area which held a work station, entertainment unit, dining area and small but functional kitchenette.  
  
Shay Alban, whose quarters were being used for a girls’ night in, pushed the tiny table to one side, shoved the two-seater sofa back and tossed some cushions on the floor in front of the 3V screen. “This is as good as it gets, I’m afraid,” she said. Princess looked around the compact living space and was thankful that there were only four women in attendance: herself, her friend Fran who was an officer on Chief Anderson’s security detail, Shay who was Anderson’s Security Coordinator and Fran’s commanding officer and Alberta Jones who was Anderson’s Liaison and Protocol officer.  
  
“It works,” Princess said. She and Fran flopped down on the cushions while Alberta took a seat on the sofa and Shay found a stack of magazines.  
  
“Oh, cool,” Fran said. “You’ve got October’s issue of _Cosmopolitan._ I missed that one.” She grabbed a couple of magazines and put them down in front of Princess. “So, what we do is, we flip through these and find hairstyles and makeup looks that we like, then we try ‘em out on each other!”  
  
“I liked that do I had for the Rigan Embassy ball,” Princess recalled. She riffled through the pages of a magazine and stopped at an article. “Oh my gosh. These are… are…”  
  
Shay craned her neck to see what Princess was reading. “Extremely useful,” Shay finished the sentence. “Good for stress relief, and if you check the stats, you’ll find that very few people get stalked by a vibrator after the relationship ends.”  
  
Princess’ index finger hovered over a particular image. “What the hell is _that_ for?”  
  
Alberta leaned in to view the picture. “Oh, that’s a _gentlemen’s_ toy. Plural. For two. Gentlemen. Or, in theory, anyone who’s partial to what might euphemistically be referred to as ‘the Greek fashion.’”  
  
“Oh...” Princess stared at the page. “You’re telling me you own one… or more… of these?”  
  
“Well, not _that_ one,” Alberta said.  
  
“Although, under certain circumstances, it could be entertaining to see that one _applied_ ,” Shay said, a slightly wistful note creeping in to her voice.  
  
The women engaged in a brief moment of quiet contemplation.  
  
“I never thought of myself as sheltered,” Princess said. “Not with my job. I see now I was wrong. So very wrong.”  
  
“You’ve just had a slightly different work-life balance to most people,” Alberta rationalised.  
  
“You’re still young,” Shay added. “Remember, we’re… somewhat older than you.”  
  
“Shay doesn’t like to think of herself as being a woman of a _certain age_ ,” Alberta confided in a stage whisper.  
  
“Hey, you’re older than me!” Shay pointed out. “I’m only thirty-nine!”  
  
Alberta shrugged. “Forty one’s not much different from thirty-nine, dearie. I can still outrun and outfight people who are younger than me. Present company excepted,” she added, with a nod in Princess’ direction.  
  
“I suppose getting older isn’t all bad,” Shay conceded. “The sex gets better.”  
  
“True,” Alberta agreed.  
  
“Seriously?” Fran asked.  
  
“Really,” Alberta said. “You get older, you know what you want, who you want it from… There’s a reason why a lot of young men are intimidated by older women. We’re powerful.”  
  
“What about older men?” Fran asked.  
  
“They’re intimidated by us as well,” Shay chuckled, “but I think as a general rule they improve with age.”  
  
“How, exactly?” Fran wanted to know.  
  
“Consideration, stamina, confidence, finesse,” Shay said. “I mean, some never learn, but as a broad generalisation, it’s less about notches on the belt as people mature. Quality versus quantity, I suppose, although it’s nice if you can have both.”  
  
“So,” Fran surmised, “you’ve still got… like… the O-face, and the mess, and stuff?”  
  
“That doesn’t change,” Alberta said.  
  
“You know the worst thing about sex?” Fran said, resting her chin in one hand.  
  
“The wet patch in the bed?” Shay teased.  
  
“No,” Fran said. “It’s having to get up and pee afterward. I mean, you’re all… you know, comfortable and relaxed and all you want to do is cuddle, but you have to get up and go pee.”  
  
Shay shrugged. “Beats having to deal with infections afterward. Besides, if you want to make a quick getaway, you can get up, go to the bathroom then make an excuse and leave.”  
  
Princess’ eyes widened. “A quick getaway?”  
  
“Well,” Shay said, “you don’t always want to hang around, you know.”  
  
“Not really,” Princess said, blushing. “I’ve never actually um…” she let the sentence trail off, unfinished.  
  
Alberta shrugged. “You’ll get around to it,” she predicted. “Or not as the case may be. Not everybody does.”  
  
“What, like nuns?” Princess asked.  
  
“No,” Shay said, “like not everybody wants to have sex. There’s no obligation on anyone to go out and lose your V-card just because someone says it’s on life’s to-do list. Although I imagine there’s a certain young G-Force Commander who might be disappointed if you never got around to it.”  
  
Princess ducked her head. “I always figured we’d get to it eventually. It’s just that there are rules.”  
  
“Of course there are,” Alberta said, “and it’s entirely your **choice** as to what you do or don’t do... and who you do it with.”  
  
“Just don’t expect perfection when you choose to do it the first time,” Shay warned.  
  
Princess frowned. “But, Shay… isn’t the first time supposed to be… you know… special?”  
  
“If by ‘special’ you mean painful, clumsy, awkward and messy,” Shay said, “then yes. Especially if your partner’s inexperienced.”  
  
“Oh,” Princess said. “I always thought… well…”  
  
“I think I’d better fetch the booze,” Alberta said. “Shay, you’ve got some explaining to do!”  
  
“Why me?” Shay asked as Alberta opened the pantry to find Shay’s liquor.  
  
“Because you started it! For heaven’s sake, put the poor girl’s mind at rest!”  
  
“I dunno,” Fran said with a shrug. “It’s kinda true. First time’s a bit… well… squicky, but it gets better!”  
  
“Squicky?” Princess echoed. “Al, are you making margaritas?”  
  
“Not exactly,” Alberta said.  
  
“I think I’m going to need a drink of some kind!” Princess said.  
  
“This is what comes of having a team of scientists raise children!” Alberta muttered as she pulled bottles out of the cupboard in the kitchenette.  
  
“Look,” Shay said, “the first time it’s always a little bit uncomfortable. I mean, think about it: you’re using muscles you’ve never used before in a _way_ that they’ve never been used before and you have no idea how you’re supposed to be using them! You don’t know what you like because you’ve got no experience to fall back on and it’s all pretty confronting to start off with.”  
  
“You’re not helping yet,” Princess said.  
  
“Okay…” Shay took a breath. “Assuming you’re an average heterosexual female, what do you actually know about sex?”  
  
“Uh, well…” Princess blushed. “I know he’s supposed to, um… stick it in, uh… there, and if the movies are anything to go by, there seems to be a lot of writhing and gasping involved…”  
  
Shay made a face. “Movie sex?”  
  
“And health and hygiene classes,” Princess added helpfully.  
  
“Oh, God!” Shay buried her face in her hands.  
  
“You don’t get to the ‘Oh, God!’ part until later!” Alberta called from the kitchenette.  
  
Fran burst into a fit of giggling. “Shay, you’re putting the cart before the horse!”  
  
“We’re not discussing _that_ aspect of sexuality tonight, thank you,” Alberta reproved. She carried in a tray with a number of glasses containing some kind of milky concoction. “Honestly, Shay.” She put the tray down on the coffee table.  
  
“Don’t look at me!” Shay protested. “I’ve never had to give anyone The talk! I don’t have kids!” Shay considered the contents of the tray. “Screaming Orgasms? Seriously? You made Screaming Orgasms?”  
  
“It seemed appropriate,” Alberta said, and took a seat on the sofa. “Actually I only made two Screaming Orgasms – I thought the girls might prefer the original recipe over the one with the Triple Sec.”  
  
“The what?” Princess asked.  
  
“Orange liqueur,” Alberta explained. “Here. Try this. It’s an Orgasm – Bailey’s Amaretto, half-and-half and Kahlua.”  
  
Princess took the glass Alberta offered and sampled the cocktail. “Hey, this isn’t bad!”  
  
“Well, don’t keep it all to yourself!” Fran said, laughing. “Pass ‘em around!”  
  
Princess giggled and handed a glass to Fran. “Why’s it called an Orgasm?”  
  
“No idea,” Alberta said. “It’s fun to order in a bar, though.”  
  
“And how’s a Screaming Orgasm different?”  
  
“A Screaming Orgasm’s made with Vodka, Amaretto, Triple Sec and White Crème de Cacao. Not quite as sweet.”  
  
“I’m _never_ going to be able to tell the boys about tonight!” Princess decided.  
  
“Hey,” Shay said, “what happens at Girls’ Night stays at Girls’ Night.”  
  
“Absolutely!” Fran declared, and the women clinked their glasses together.  
  
Princess held her glass up and stared at it. “So, this is my first Orgasm… I get the feeling I’m being let off lightly.”  
  
“Princess,” Alberta said, “if sex wasn’t extremely enjoyable, people wouldn’t do it nearly as much as they do.”  
  
“Well, yeah,” Princess said. “I guess that’s a logical argument.”  
  
“There are an awful lot of myths about losing your virginity and I swear some of them are designed to terrify women.”  
  
Shay snorted in a very unladylike fashion. “The first time I saw an actual erection I thought it was gross!” She took a swig of her drink and cackled.  
  
“I was curious and appalled in equal measures,” Alberta confessed. “I mean, okay, you’ve see the diagrams and everything, but then you’re confronted with this weird… swollen… knobbly... veined… bobbing… _projection_!”  
  
Fran giggled. “So it wasn’t just me!”  
  
“Hell no!” Shay declared.  
  
“Can I just clarify,” Princess ventured, “that you’re not trying to put me off sex forever? Because I’m starting to wonder.”  
  
“Oh, it’s not that bad!” Shay declared. “Besides, our junk can’t be that much better-looking to a man, especially the first time he has to go down on a woman. I mean, they have enough trouble finding things as it is!”  
  
“Go… down?” Princess echoed.  
  
“Oral sex,” Fran explained with a knowing smile.  
  
“No seriously,” Shay said, “a big part of the whole ‘pain of losing your virginity’ thing comes from your muscles not being relaxed enough, and the best way to get them relaxed is to have an orgasm prior to penetration.”  
  
“And the best way for that to happen,” Fran said, “is for your partner to go down on you.”  
  
“Oh, God,” Princess said.  
  
“Exactly,” Alberta said. “That’s the ‘Oh, God!’ part. Hopefully the first of several over the course of the event.”  
  
“That’s one advantage we women have,” Shay said. “We can have multiple orgasms in quick succession. Men need time to recharge. The male orgasm’s more intense but ours last longer and we can have more of ‘em.”  
  
“To the female orgasm!” Fran declared, raising her glass. The others followed suit.  
  
“The female orgasm!” they chorused, and drank.  
  
Alberta got to her feet. “I’m mixing up another round. Same again, ladies?”  
  
“You bet,” Princess said.  
  
  
  
  
In the G-Force quarters, Mark, who had been half-dozing through the movie on the 3V, started and sat up straight in the armchair he’d been slumped in.  
  
“What’s the matter, Obi-Wan?” Jason asked. “Y’feel a disturbance in The Force?”  
  
“I… ” Mark muttered, “I just had the strangest feeling that someone was talking about us and laughing.”  
  
“You’re imagining things,” Jason said. “Either that or it’s Zoltar again. Guy laughs at the drop of a hat. Weird if you ask me.”  
  
“Yeah,” Mark said. “Yeah. That must have been it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the idea for this story after an experience I had this one time when I was shopping on line for consumables to make up emergency first aid kits for my wildlife rescue volunteers. One of the things I wanted to include in the kits were little sachets of water-based gel lubricant for gastric and crop tubes, so I googled 'water-based gel lubricant.'
> 
> What an education it was!
> 
> My innocent search for first aid supplies returned not only a number of variations on water-based gel lubricant, but a LOT of recreational devices to which water-based gel lubricant might conceivably be applied! It was at this point that I realised I'd led a sheltered life.
> 
> And in the end, I did not find any individual sachets of water-based gel lubricant for use in medical and/or surgical applications. I do tell the story of my internet search when lecturing at courses for wildlife rescue volunteers and it usually gets a laugh, so it wasn't a total loss.


	8. Bradbury's Jar #268 - Smouldering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boy and his dog. His super-powered cerebonically-enhanced dog.

Security Chief Anderson finished reading the last of the ISO Council minutes and closed the file. He leaned back in his chair and stretched. He removed his palm unit from the desktop dock, got up and walked to the window of his Camp Parker office.  
  
The mid-morning sunlight was glinting off the surface of Lake Conway as a gentle breeze made dancing wavelets in the water. A run around the lake would be the perfect way to unwind after reviewing the proceedings of the last Council meeting, which had been dominated by discussions on the funding for the Space Patrol’s new docking facility. It had been the mental equivalent of having someone read _War and Peace_ aloud to a captive audience.  
  
No, Anderson decided. That was a little harsh. More like _Anna Karenina_ , really.  
  
With a spring in his step, Anderson headed to his room to change.  
  
Naturally, it had to happen.  
  
Even as he was reaching for the doorknob, his palm unit began to shrill with an alarm notification. It wasn’t Zark’s alert tone from Nerve Centre, but an internal Camp Parker alarm. Anderson consulted the unit, read the display, flung the door open and broke into a run, heading for the G-Force quarters.  
  
  
  
WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP!  
  
“- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ?” Mark asked  
  
WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP!  
  
“- - - - ?” Tiny asked.  
  
WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP!  
  
“- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ?” Mark asked, raising his voice.  
  
WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP!  
  
“- - - - ‘ - - - - - - - - !” Jason said.  
  
WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP! WHOO-OOOOP!  
  
“- - - - - - - - - - - - - _EASE SHUT THAT THING OFF!_ ” Mark bellowed.  
  
“I couldn’t hear you over the alarm,” Princess said. “I had to shut it off.”  
  
  
  
Security Chief Anderson raced around the corner, security detail in tow. The officers broke into a sprint as they neared the G-Force quarters and burst into the living area ahead of their Chief of Staff, guns at the ready.  
  
While it was procedure for a protection detail to, if not bar their protection assignment from entering a high-risk area, at least precede him so that whatever was going to happen, happened to them first, doing so when said area was already occupied by the members of G-Force was never going to be a good idea.  
  
Anderson came to a stop next to the prone bodies of Lieutenants Falcone and Thorne as Mark caught his sonic boomerang on its return arc.  
  
“Uh, sorry, Chief,” Mark said. “Reflexes.”  
  
Anderson surveyed the scene before him.  
  
Item 1: two unconscious security officers. “Would someone please put Terry and Nathan in the casualty position until they wake up?” Anderson asked with a pointed look at Mark.  
  
“Yes, Chief! Sorry, Chief!” Mark hastened to comply.  
  
Item 2: chairs, cushions and various items of furniture up-ended and scattered around the room.  
  
Item 3: what appeared to be about a dozen newspapers, torn to shreds and scattered around the room (but in reality it was probably only one newspaper, torn to shreds and scattered around the room.)  
  
Item 4: several large damp bath towels, dropped haphazardly around –  
  
Item 5: one very large, very shaggy, drooling, panting, wet St Bernard dog, sitting in the middle of the room with –  
  
Item 6: one equally wet boy who appeared to be covered in a combination of flea shampoo and dog hair.  
  
Item 7: Tiny Harper at the kitchen sink with a large pot, the contents of which appeared to be **smouldering**.  
  
Item 8: “ _What_. Is. That. _Smell?_ ”  
  
Keyop attempted a smile. “Doctor Sexton said that home-cooked food was good for dogs, and I, uh, thought I’d try the recipe she gave me for Orion.”  
  
“And?” Chief Anderson prompted.  
  
“Orion rolled in some duck poop down by the lake, so I figured I’d better give him a bath.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“I forgot to check the dog food.”  
  
“Fire Control Officer!”  
  
Anderson stepped aside to allow a team from the Engineering Department to make their way into the room. The Engineers stared at the bodies lying on the floor and sniffed at the acrid smell that permeated the air.  
  
“Captain Miller,” Anderson said, “I think you can sound the all-clear for this one.”  
  
Ruth Miller saluted. “Yes, sir! Move out, men!”  
  
With a few more nervous sidelong glances, the engineering team departed as quickly as they’d arrived.  
  
Anderson folded his arms and waited.  
  
“Uh…” Mark ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay. Keyop… why don’t you take Orion outside – someplace _clean_ – and finish drying him off? Take the towels with you. Tiny, can you dispose of the dog food experiment? Princess, could you open a couple of windows? Jason, you and I can start clearing up this mess.”  
  
Anderson cleared his throat.  
  
“Oh,” Mark said. “You can I can start clearing up this mess right after I place a call to the Med Centre and uh…” he glanced at Anderson, “fill out an incident report form?”  
  
“Well done, Commander,” Anderson said. “I’ll be outside.”  
  
  
  
When Terry Falcone and Nathan Thorne woke up an hour later in the infirmary, they didn’t laugh at the story. That took several more hours, an apology and approximately three beers each.  
  
Orion had kibble and canned food for his dinner.


	9. Bradbury’s Jar #269 - Devastation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We can destroy it for you wholesale.

Harek’s nose itched. He scratched it, but it didn’t help.  
  
A trickle of sweat escaped the drab green half-mask he wore and dribbled down one side of his face. He swiped at it with one hand, leaving a smear of grease behind.  
  
Beside him, Ing was making a desultory attempt at cleaning the big seal ring that had been removed from the pump.  
  
“Don’t stop pumping,” Ing said, spraying cleaner on the heavy-grade neoprene and rubbing with a rag. “We’ll be in it for sure if that thing backs up.”  
  
Harek re-applied himself to the manual override, working the heavy handle: up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause; up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause; up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause.  
  
“Ing?” Harek ventured.  
  
“What?” Ing asked without looking up from what he was doing.  
  
“Why did you volunteer us for bilge duty? I thought you hated bilge duty.”  
  
“I do hate bilge duty,” Ing said, “but you heard the scuttlebutt: Lord Zoltar has a plan to trap G-Force aboard the ship.”  
  
“So?” Harek asked.  
  
“Don’t stop pumping,” Ing said, and Harek hastened to work the pump handle again: up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause; up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause; up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause.  
  
Harek continued pumping. It was hot in the pump room and he wished he could remove his mask, but he’d be out of uniform if he did and Spirit knew, as soon as he took it off, Sergeant Ern would turn up and chew him out about it.  
  
Up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause; up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause; up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause.  
  
Ing finished with the seal ring and began fiddling with the bearings, trying to get them seated.  
  
“Ing?” Harek said.  
  
Up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause; up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause; up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause.  
  
“What?” Ing prompted.  
  
“What does Lord Zoltar’s plan to trap G-Force aboard the ship have to do with you volunteering us for bilge duty?”  
  
Ing paused in his work to deliver a slap to the back of his comrade’s head. The slap dislodged Harek’s mask and he stopped pumping to reposition it.  
  
“Keep pumping!” Ing snapped.  
  
Harek complied: up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause; up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause; up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause.  
  
Ing managed to get the bearing seated and began reassembling the bilge pump. “You really don’t get it?” he asked after a while.  
  
“Get what?” Harek asked.  
  
“Get why I volunteered us for bilge duty?”  
  
“Not really, Ing.” Up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause; up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause; up – _sssschlooooooop_! – pause; down – _ssschloooorrrrrrrrrffff_! – pause.  
  
“Harek,” Ing said, “in our admittedly limited experience with G-Force, what’s the usual sequence of events?”  
  
“Uh…” Harek screwed up his face as he concentrated. “They usually blow up the base we’re in… Or the ship. Or whatever.”  
  
“Exactly.” Ing began to tick off items on his fingers. “One: Lord Zoltar sets a trap for G-Force. Two: G-Force fall into Lord Zoltar’s trap. Three: G-Force escape from Lord Zoltar’s trap. Four: G-Force blow up the base and/or the ship, leading to chaos and wholesale **devastation**. So now do you understand why I volunteered us for bilge duty?”  
  
“Oh, I see!” Harek said, beaming, then his face crumpled. “No, I don’t. I still don’t know why you volunteered us for bilge duty.”  
  
“Because there’s an escape capsule directly behind that bulkhead!” Ing exclaimed.  
  
“Oh, right.” Harek processed this information. “You’re smart, Ing.”  
  
“Smarter than you, Harek.”  
  



	10. Bradbury's Jar #270 - Freak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most dangerous thing.

A single ululating howl rose high into the night sky. It was soon joined by others. It was a primal sound, one that carried into the lodge occupied by the Galaxy Security contingent and proceeded to do its job, raising the hair on the backs of any number of necks.  
  
Despite her proximity to the fire, Princess shivered. "Are those wolves howling out there?" she asked the room in general.  
  
"No," Anderson said without looking up from his newspaper.  
  
“They’re _Dire Wolves_!” Keyop exclaimed, eyes alight. “This planet has some amazing fauna! Chief, are you sure we can’t stay a couple extra days after the G-Ten Summit's done? I’d really like to see some of the wildlife.”  
  
"So there _are_ wolves out there!" Princess concluded, alarm pitching her voice up an octave.  
  
“Dire Wolves,” Keyop corrected.  
  
“Giant **freak** -of-nature-wolves!” Princess exclaimed.  
  
Lieutenant Colonel Jones paused in her report-writing to give Keyop a reproving look, then turned to Princess. "The thing to keep in mind is that there are wolves _out there_ , which means that by definition, they're not in here with us."  
  
"Besides," Keyop argued, "there are no known records of wolves attacking adult humans without provocation."  
  
Princess considered this for a moment. "There are two flaws in that argument, Keyop: firstly, how do _wolves_ define 'provocation' and secondly, 'no known records' simply means that if anyone _was_ attacked without provocation, they never got to file a report about it!"  
  
"Pardon me for saying so," Jones said, "but I don't think the wolves are the most dangerous things in the vicinity at the moment."  
  
"They aren't?" Princess' eyes widened. "What is?"  
  
Jones might have smiled. It was hard to tell. "I would have thought it was you," she said.


	11. Bradbury's Jar #271 - Crevasse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun doesn't necessarily come up tomorrow if you're close enough to the pole.

It was still dark when the alarm clocks of the Galaxy Security contingent rang and led to the usual stumbling about, griping about waiting for the bathroom and the inevitable crowding and dodging in the kitchen of the guest lodge.  
  
As 0630 approached, the apparent crowd abruptly thinned out as most of the uniformed staff vanished for their pre-shift hand-over briefing, leaving Princess, Tiny and Keyop to breathe a sigh of relief before Tiny began to negotiate the controls on the dishwasher.  
  
Mark and Jason had gone to attend the briefing.  
  
Keyop stared out of the kitchen window, sipping at his mug of hot chocolate. “Princess?” he said.  
  
“Hmm?” Princess glanced across the table from her perusal of the morning news, which was being projected as an interactive hologram by the palm unit lying on the table-top.  
  
“Why do people protest about the G-Ten?”  
  
“Something to do with the perception of inequality and elitism,” Princess said. “I’ve never really understood it, myself.”  
  
“But yesterday I saw people waving signs that said ‘Bring Back Spectra’! What kind of crazy is that?”  
  
“Well,” Princess said, “the Group of Ten is meant to be made up of the ten largest economies in the Milky Way, and to be fair, Spectra’s one of those economies, but they got suspended when the war started. Some people think that being at war with the rest of the galaxy shouldn’t be a bar to participation.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous,” Tiny said. “Zoltar’s idea of participation’s usually to bring some weird attack ship and take everyone hostage or something.”  
  
“Preaching to the choir, Reverend,” Princess pointed out. “Anyway, we’re back to ten big economies now that the Gaian Commonwealth’s finally accepted their invitation to join, and some people are saying that since they're a pretty big economy, they might edge Spectra out in the long run because of the war anyway.”  
  
“How does that happen?” Keyop asked.  
  
“Wars are expensive,” Tiny said. “I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but the _Phoenix_ is an expensive bird to run. Can you imagine how much it must cost Zoltar to build all those ships of his? And we keep destroying ‘em. Bases, too. Some days I think the ISO’s best strategy is to send Spectra broke!”  
  
“I’m _never_ becoming an economist!” Keyop declared.  
  
  
  
When Mark and Jason returned, Keyop was rinsing his mug at the sink.  
  
“Anything interesting, Commander?” Princess asked.  
  
“Nothing new, Princess,” Mark said.  
  
“Second verse, same as the first,” Jason quipped. “We patrol, we keep a low profile. We get trotted out when the higher-ups want to gawk at us.”  
  
“We stay sharp in case Zoltar tries anything,” Mark added.  
  
“Yeah,” Jason agreed. “The quieter it stays, the jumpier I get.”  
  
Mark pulled a piece of paper out of his jeans pocket. “I’ve got today’s patrol patterns. Let’s go get some air and I’ll brief you outside.”  
  
The G-Force team followed their leader out onto the raised and covered deck. Above, the sky was clear and black, stars shining as bright, icy pinpoints of light while the full moon rode high in the sky and cast long pale shadows across the landscape.  
  
Below, the snow looked like the icing on a Christmas cake. The path had been shovelled clear by the maintenance robot and the grounds stretched down to a stone wall, beyond which a deep **crevasse** yawned, dark and forbidding, the moonlight vanishing into its depths.  
  
Mark leaned on the railing and took a deep breath of cold air. “I could come back here for a vacation some time,” he said.  
  
“I don’t know about that,” Princess said. “The diurnal cycle and the crazy wildlife aren’t exactly my idea of fun.”  
  
“This planet’s awesome!” Keyop argued. “So what if the nights are twenty-three hours long? We can see in the dark. Besides, the wildlife here is way cool.”  
  
“Dire wolves?” Princess recalled. “Not cool. That howling we heard last night was just creepy.”  
  
“They were probably howling at the moon,” Tiny suggested, with a nod toward the enormous silvery globe above them. “That’s a great moon. Just the kind of thing a wolf would like to howl at.”  
  
As if on cue, a distant wolf howled and Princess shivered.  
  
Mark turned back to his team and was about to call them to order when Jason spoke up.  
  
“Wolves don’t actually howl at the moon, y’know,” he said.  
  
“They don’t?” Princess asked.  
  
“Nah,” Jason said. He steered Princess over to the railing and pointed skyward.  
  
Princess looked up at the night sky. “What am I looking at?”  
  
“That little star, just down and to the right,” Jason said. “ _That’s_ what the wolves are howling at.”  
  
Jason ducked and laughed as Princess aimed an indignant swat at his arm. _“Jason!”_


	12. Bradbury's Jar #272 - Gaffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galaxy Security has a boffin named Kew who likes to fit out high-end sports cars with weapons.

The .50 calibre rounds ripped through the roof of the car, bursting outward with a roar like the angriest swarm of bees in the galaxy. The vehicle slewed wildly as the driver fought for control, spun and came to a stop on the track.  
  
The robot target vehicle swerved to avoid the test car and continued trundling its way along while Jason gripped the steering wheel and took several deep breaths.  
  
“Jason?” a voice sounded in Jason’s helmet comm. “Is everything all right? You appear to have stopped.”  
  
Jason clenched his teeth, then decided there was no point in holding back. “Does everything look all right?” he retorted. “The car just turned itself into a convertible! Doc, you do realise that if you’re going to install an LX-50 in a moving vehicle, you have to anchor the darned thing securely enough that it doesn’t break free with the recoil?”  
  
“We did anchor it in securely, Jason, I’m quite sure of that. It’s right here on my ‘to do’ list.”  
  
“Doc,” Jason said. “is it on your ‘to do’ list, or your ‘done’ list?”  
  
“Oh… erm…”  
  
“Doctor Kew,” Jason said, “when I get back, you and I are going to have a little talk.”  
  
  
  
Jasper Kew was apologetic as Jason steered the heavily-damaged test vehicle back into the garage.  
  
“I’m so frightfully sorry!” Kew said as Jason got out of the car. “I could have sworn those anchors were rated to hold up to the recoil.”  
  
Jason pulled his helmet off and tossed it on the seat. “Maybe the anchors were,” Jason said. He walked around to the rear of the vehicle and lifted up what was left of the rear hatch. “Unfortunately, the floor of the vehicle wasn’t. Doc, you gotta think these things through a little better!”  
  
“Oh. Oh, of course. Yes. Yes. Should’ve thought of that, really. Yes.”  
  
“This is why you only get to test these things on used pool vehicles, Doc. Can you imagine what the Chief would say if you’d rigged that gun up in an Aston-Martin like you originally wanted?”  
  
“I remember what he said the time we blew up that Bugatti Veyron,” Dr Kew recalled. “He’s got quite the vocabulary, hasn't he?”  
  
“As it happens,” Jason pointed out, “I agreed with everything he said when you blew up the Veyron.”  
  
“I did apologise at the time,” Kew said, rather stiffly.  
  
“I’m going to write up my report,” Jason said.  
  
“Yes. Well. Sorry about that,” Kew said as Jason stalked away. “Bit of a **gaffe** on my part. All right, you lot,” he said to the technicians. “Get the gun out of there and find another car. We’ll get this automatic cannon thing sorted out one way or another.”  
  
Jason made his way to the tiny cubicle he used for his reports. Some days, his cover job at Galaxy Security Research and Development was almost as dangerous as his missions with G-Force.


	13. Bradbury's Jar #273 - Apprehension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keep it secret! Keep it safe! It's the one... er... thing.

Security Chief Anderson could hear Gunnery Sergeant McAllister's phone ringing. After nine rings, it stopped, but there was nothing to indicate that Gunny was speaking. Idly, Anderson called up the screen on his computer that showed which comm channels were active in the Department. Gunny's voice mail was in use. This suggested that the desk was unattended. There were only two live channels in the entire executive suite, both belonging to directors, and six voice mailboxes were showing activity.  
   
  _Odd_. Oh, well, it was time for a cup of coffee anyway. Anderson picked up his coffee cup, stood and started out for the executive kitchen. Major Alban was on duty outside the door, standing at ease and staring down the empty corridor. That was odd, too. The Officer in Charge of his personal security detail seldom assigned herself to door duty. Anderson paused.  
   
 "Where's Lieutenant Thorne?" Anderson asked.  
   
 "Staff meeting, Chief," Alban said. "I'm covering 'til they're done."  
   
 "I don't recall a staff meeting being scheduled for today," Anderson said.  
   
 Alban's gaze slid away to her left. "Wasn't posted, sir. Admin and Security staff only. Just… an informal thing."  
   
 "Oh?" Anderson hadn't risen to the position of Chief of Galaxy Security without learning how to spot evasion. He waited, creating a vacuum of silence. Nature abhors a vacuum. It had to be filled.  
   
 Shay Alban, however, hadn't become a senior protective services officer without learning how to work around her protection assignments should the need arise. She focussed on the potted Ficus near the reception desk. "Can I help you with anything else, sir?" she asked, falling back on one of the classic subordinate defences against uncomfortable vacuums of silence.  
   
 "That'll be all, Major," Anderson said. He made his way toward the staff kitchen, only to find Alban at heel.  
   
 "Why don't you let me do that, Chief?" Alban offered.  
   
 "Thank you, Major, but I think I can manage to pour myself a cup of coffee," Anderson said.  
   
 "Of course, sir, only..." Alban attempted a helpful smile. "You're busy, and I can do it."  
   
 Anderson sidestepped to avoid his security coordinator, who seemed to be trying to shepherd him away from the kitchen. "As you were, Major," he said, and continued walking.  
   
 Thoroughly suspicious by now, Anderson opened the door of the staff kitchen and noticed that the coffee pot was empty. He set about making a fresh pot. While he waited for the coffee to brew, he opened the kitchen door and caught the barely-audible sound of a cut-glass voice raised in order that it might be heard clearly throughout the nearby conference room. Anderson lounged in the doorway and eavesdropped shamelessly:  
   
 "...Freedom of speech is all very well, but I remind you all that this particular mode of expression is inappropriate and unprofessional. Policy, ladies and gentlemen, is set by Galaxy Security Executive for sound reasons. We have avenues for protest within the ISO at all levels, but if you truly, sincerely feel that you cannot work within the policies and procedures of this organisation, Human Resources is on the thirty-ninth floor!"  
   
 There was no mistaking the voice of Anderson’s staff liaison officer. Lieutenant Colonel Jones got positively waspish when she was annoyed and she sounded as though she was in the process of making the day extremely unpleasant for someone. _Interesting_. Anderson took a half dozen paces down the corridor to the conference room door, where he lurked for a few moments longer, the better to listen in.  
   
 "We have grievance procedures," Alberta Jones continued, her already sharp tones now positively jagged with displeasure, "which are here to be brought into play when we disagree with anything within the agency. There are appropriate avenues which should be explored. We have our own personal standards of professionalism and I consider this to be a very poor example on the part of the person or persons responsible!"  
   
 Anderson made an executive decision. Galaxy Security was his agency, after all, so he opened the conference room door. At the front of the room, Colonel Jones saw him across the heads of the attendees, paled and fell silent, then her hand whipped around to hide something behind her back. The heads turned and a wave of swift horror crossed the assembled faces. The staff cleared a path for him, scattering like a shoal of panicking fish before a shark.  
   
 "Dismissed!" Jones snapped, and the members of the Executive Admin and Security teams fled.  
   
 Anderson waited while staff hurried past him in a stream of uniforms and civilian business attire, all topped with apprehensive faces.  
   
 Jones didn't move. She stood like a deer caught in headlights as the room emptied. Someone pulled the door shut, leaving the Chief of Galaxy Security alone in the room with his liaison officer.  
   
 Anderson strode forward. He stopped a few feet from Jones and put his hands in his pockets.  
   
 The clock on the wall ticked and tocked, beating the seconds away like Death's drum while Anderson allowed another vacuum to establish itself, ready and waiting for an explanation.  
   
 "Morning, sir!" Jones said, altogether too brightly.  
   
 "You seem to have some energy this morning, Colonel," Anderson remarked casually.  
   
 "Me, sir? No more than usual, sir."  
   
 "Al..."  
   
 "Sir?"  
   
 "Spill the beans."  
   
 "With respect, sir, I'd rather not."  
   
 Anderson withdrew his hands from his pockets and folded his arms. "I've got all day, you know."  
   
 "You haven't, sir. You've a meeting with Air Marshall Lynch at eleven."  
   
 Anderson took two paces to close the distance between himself and Jones. Jones was obliged to step backward as Anderson moved forward. She fetched up against the bank of low, built-in stationery cupboards and leaned back as Anderson's palms hit the counter on either side of her.   
   
Jones tried to remember to breathe. The distance between them was measurable in millimetres. She could smell the faint hint of aftershave and feel the heat radiating from his body. She knew -- was quite certain, in fact -- that she had two perfectly serviceable knees but for some reason they didn't seem to be terribly keen on doing their job at the moment. Anderson was providing empirical proof that eye contact could be used as a weapon.  
   
 "Hand it over, Al," he said.  
   
  _Inhale_. "It's an administrative matter," Jones whispered. She managed to focus enough to consider her position _vis-à-vis_ the rule book -- book _s_ , actually. There were three books: the ISO Standing Orders, the ISO Officers' Handbook and the Galaxy Security Policy and Procedures Manual -- the very tome she'd been referring to in this morning's meeting.  
   
 "Administrative, huh?"  
   
 If anyone walked in, they might well leap to the conclusion that ISO Standing Order 109(v) was being, if not broken, at least bent. ISO Standing Order 109(v) was quite clear. It emphatically stated, in carefully phrased, expensively purchased legalese, that Thou Shalt Not Commit Nooky With Anyone in Thy Chain of Command.  
   
 "That's right, sir," Jones said. "Administrative," she added again for good measure. In the event that somebody did walk in, she was fairly certain that she could, with a good IJAG representative, escape a 109(v) indictment as long as there was no actual physical contact. _Breathe_ , she reminded herself. _Inhale. Good. Exhale. Must remember to exhale... Inhale again, dammit!_  
   
There were separate sets of regulations pertaining to intimidation, equal opportunities and sexual harassment in the workplace. The Officers' Handbook had well defined rules about sexual harassment. One of the things it was clear on was that for harassment to occur, someone had to _mind_. So, scratch that one, then. But that took the situation back to 109(v) and any surveillance video could look pretty damning in that regard. It was important to keep up appearances, after all. And to breathe. It was _vitally_ important to breathe. Maintaining knee control was good, too.  
  
 Jones gave herself a second or so more to contemplate the possibilities. According to the guidelines that accompanied the rules, there were a number of avenues open to an officer who found herself in what might tactfully be referred to as a 'socially delicate' situation. She mentally ran through some of the options before settling on a slightly creative solution.  
   
 Very carefully, remembering to breathe while she did it, Jones reminded her right knee just who was in charge of knees around here, and moved it very slightly into a new position.  
   
 Anderson was aware, not so much of actual contact, but of a suggestion of _potentiality_. He made some hasty mental calculations as to the likelihood of sustaining an acutely personal injury.  
   
 Nobody moved.  
   
 "That's a less-than-friendly knee," Anderson observed, keeping his tone casual.  
   
 "It could become positively belligerent," Jones warned, holding eye contact. _Breathe_.  
   
 Anderson weighed the warning in his mind. "You're bluffing," he concluded, refusing to look away.  
   
 "Not if anyone walks in. Even I have a vestigial instinct for self-preservation."  
   
 "Al, you really know how to hurt a guy."  
   
 "Not _yet_ ," Jones pointed out.  
   
 "You wouldn't," Anderson said.  
   
 "You wouldn't like to find out the hard way if you're wrong," Jones parried. "Anyway, there's Zark and that FOSDIC thingy of his. Twenty-four-seven surveillance and all that. You know he scans the executive suite a lot. You're a priority subject, after all."  
   
 Anderson's eyes narrowed slightly. Jones forgot to breathe again.  
   
 "Fine," Anderson said, and backed away. Jones' lungs demanded attention and she remembered the importance of respiration as a process making a significant contribution to a continuing state of consciousness and general well-being. She edged away along the counter. Anderson folded his arms. "You can run," he told her, "but you can't hide."  
   
 "In that case," Jones reasoned, having reached the end of the counter, "I suppose the thing to remember is that I've always been a faster runner than you." She turned, tucking the mystery object under her jacket as she did so and raced for the door.  
   
 Anderson sprinted after her. He saw Jones pull the door open, run through it and dart to her left down the corridor. He followed before the door had time to swing shut. "You're _so_ busted, Al-- _Princess_!" He skidded to a stop, barely in time to avert a collision with G-Force's technical officer.  
   
 Jones was about four feet away, arms folded protectively across her midriff, also, it seemed, having narrowly avoided running into G‑3.  
   
 "Am I interrupting something?" Princess asked, a smile spreading across her face.  
   
 "No!" Anderson and Jones chorused.  
   
 "Oh, really?" Princess challenged, and put her hands on her hips.  
   
 "We were just... er..." Jones began.  
   
 "Discussing -- no, _debating_ \--" Anderson corrected.  
   
 "The, um... merits," Jones continued, "of, ah..."  
   
 "The implied confidentiality," Anderson said, pleased with himself at being able to find a polysyllabic word at short notice.  
   
 "Of the, er... what-do-you-call-it... thingy... Um, I mentioned it before, in the meeting... Grievance something."  
   
 "Informal grievance procedure," Anderson concluded, regaining his mental footing.  
   
 "A _lively debate_?" Princess inferred.  
   
 "It had its moments," Jones said.  
   
 "I suppose this is the part where you tell me it's not what it looked like," Princess predicted sagely.  
   
 “Why?” Jones asked, a note of panic creeping into her voice. “What did it look like?”  
   
 “You need me to spell it out for you?” Princess offered.  
   
 "Let’s be clear," Jones said. "Whatever it looked like, it wasn't, unless of course you think it looked like something completely innocent that just happens to be being taken entirely out of context at this particular point in time!"  
   
 "And which wouldn't have eventuated," Anderson added, skewering Jones with a look, "if you'd been reasonable about not withholding information."  
   
 "It's need-to-know," Jones declared, lifting her head in a rare gesture of defiance.  
   
 "Do you honestly think," Anderson argued, "that even if I don't obtain the information from you, someone else won't tell me?"  
   
 "They're already under orders to keep it compartmentalised," Jones said.  
   
 "How long do you think it'll be before someone cracks?" Anderson asked, folding his arms and glaring.  
   
 "They won't," Jones insisted. "Not with me around."  
   
 "You think people are more scared of _you_ than they are of _me_?"  
   
 "Oh, you're much scarier than me, sir," Jones agreed, "but there's a crucial difference."  
   
 "Which is?"  
   
 "I have more contact with the staff on the floor than you do: you're acute, but I'm _chronic_." With that, Jones turned and fled down an adjoining corridor.  
   
 Anderson took a step and a half to follow before catching himself. He turned to Princess. "You understand," he said levelly, "that what you've seen and heard here is, um, classified."  
   
 "Right," Princess said, and bit her lip. "Classified."  
   
 Anderson strode down the corridor, following the path Jones had taken.  
   
 Princess put one hand to her mouth. She leaned back against the wall and laughed, shoulders shaking.  
   
 Jones, having doubled back via another corridor, ran up the passageway, ducked into the staff kitchen, then darted out again a moment later. She glanced around and thrust a rolled-up tea towel into Princess' hands. "Keep it secret! Keep it safe!" she hissed. She walked briskly down the corridor and around the corner.  
   
 Princess looked at the bundle in her hands. There appeared to be something wrapped up inside the towel. Bemused, she headed for the G-Force office area, still smiling. She made to stow the mysterious towel-wrapped object in the drawer of the desk assigned to her and paused, caught for a moment by temptation. Princess considered: Colonel Jones hadn't told _her_ not to look, after all. Carefully, she unrolled the tea towel, turned the plastic object in her hands, stared, giggled, then wrapped it up again. No wonder it needed to be kept hidden!  
  
Anderson noticed most of the staff on the executive floor seemed to be avoiding eye contact with him. Clearly, whatever Jones had said to them had stuck. While they were generally avoiding eye contact with their Chief of Staff, they were actively avoiding any kind of contact with Lieutenant Colonel Jones. When Jones came striding down the corridor, staff scattered, ducking into offices and down corridors – in one case even into the wrong rest room – to get out of her way.  
   
 On his way back from the rest room – the correct one for the gender with which he identified – Anderson stopped at Gunnery Sergeant McAllister’s desk.  
   
 “Sorry, sir. Ain’t gonna happen,” McAllister said.  
   
 “What isn’t going to happen?” Anderson asked, feigning innocence.  
   
 “It’s an on-going investigation, sir,” McAllister said. “Can’t discuss it.”  
   
 “It seems everyone else has discussed it,” Anderson pointed out.  
   
 “Wasn’t exactly a full and frank exchange of views, Chief,” McAllister said. “More a case of a whole bunch of people now walking around with an extra asshole.”  
   
 “That bad?” Anderson surmised.  
   
 “You told me you’d seen what happened when Colonel Jones lost her temper, sir. It was a near thing.”  
   
 “So, what’s got Al all riled up?”  
   
 “Wouldn’t like to say, sir, in case she really does lose her temper. Look, sir, she’s protecting you, okay? It’s what she does.”  
   
 “She’s protecting me?”  
   
 “Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?”  
   
 “Yes, Gunny. Thank you for your time.” Anderson headed back into his office. _She’s protecting me?_  
   
   
   
   
 “What’s up with the admin staff today?” Mark asked as he strolled into the G-Force office area and sat down in his allocated chair.  
   
 “Yeah,” Jason said, having followed his Commanding Officer in to the office. “They all look like they’ve been thoroughly spooked.”  
   
 “I haven’t seen that many nervous people in one place since that time Jason had a toothache!” Tiny chuckled.  
   
 Keyop giggled, but subsided when Jason glared at him.  
   
 “Human Resources has probably invented a new form to fill out or something,” Princess said, shrugging. “Whatever it is, I doubt it’s going to affect us.”  
   
 Since Princess had correctly judged that the idea of additional paperwork held little attraction for any of the G‑Force team, the others settled in to their work-stations and began reading their bulletins.  
   
 “Well, crud!” Mark said, rummaging in his desk drawer.  
   
 “What’s wrong?” Princess asked.  
   
 “The tip fell off my stylus and I don’t have a spare. Hey, Princess, do you have --?”  
   
 “Wait!” Princess lunged and grabbed the drawer handle before Mark could.  
   
 “What in the world…?”  
   
 “This drawer’s stuck!” Princess said desperately. She rattled it. “See? Can’t get it open. At all. Ever. Jason, do you have a spare stylus?”  
   
 “I guess,” Jason said with a sidelong glance at Princess. “Maybe.” He opened the drawer of his own desk and found a stylus. “Here y’go, Skipper.”  
   
 “Uh… thanks, Jason,” Mark said. “Princess, are you okay?”  
   
 “Fine!” Princess declared. “Thank you for asking. Everything’s fine. Except for the desk drawer. The desk drawer is obviously not fine. I’ll put in a request for maintenance to come look at it. Later. After which it, too will be fine. We’ll all be fine.”  
   
 “Oh. Well, uh… fine, then,” Mark said, and got back to work.  
   
   
   
   
 Once his meeting with Air Marshall Lynch had concluded, Security Chief Anderson had Sergeant McAllister summon Major Alban to the inner sanctum.  
   
 “You wanted to see me, sir?” Alban said, standing in the doorway.  
   
 “That meeting this morning,” Anderson said. “You didn’t attend.”  
   
 “No, sir,” Alban said. “I volunteered to stand in as Officer of the Watch. So, I wasn’t there,” she added. “For any of it. At all.”  
   
 Anderson leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He began tapping the tips of his index fingers together, giving the impression of a timer counting down to something whose overall effect was probably going to be generally – and yet at the same time quite specifically – unpleasant.  
   
 Alban shifted slightly. “Will that be all, sir?”  
   
 “No, Major,” Anderson said, “I don’t think it will.”  
   
 “Chief,” Alban said, “I wasn’t in the meeting.”  
   
 “True,” Anderson said, “but you’re Al’s best friend, and I’d bet good money that she told you what the meeting was going to be about.”  
   
 Alban squared her shoulders. “That’s as may be,” she said, “but I promised I’d keep our conversation between us, and if you want to get all up in my personal space about it, I _will_ knee you in the groin.”  
   
 Anderson considered. “What did Al tell you about our… discussion?”  
   
 “She didn’t say a word,” Alban said, “but I haven’t seen her that flustered in quite a while so I asked Zark for the surveillance feed. Let’s just say I’ve never had as much forbearance as Al has, sir.”  
   
 “Thank you, Major Alban. Dismissed.”  
   
 As Alban left, Anderson smiled to himself. _Of course_.  
   
 The tele-comm sounded with an incoming message tone. Anderson answered it. “Yes, Gunny?”  
   
  _“Call from Secretary Claybourne’s office, sir.”_  
   
 “Thanks, Gunny. Put it through.”  
   
   
   
   
 One by one, the members of G-Force finished their administrative tasks and got ready to leave the office area.  
   
 “Aren’t you done yet?” Keyop asked, hovering at Princess’ elbow. “The rest of us are going to that new sculpture walk in the park to see if any of the statues turn into giant attack-robots!”  
   
 “Why don’t you go on ahead?” Princess suggested. “I’m not quite done here.”  
   
 “Yes you are,” Keyop argued. “You finished reading your bulletins ages ago.” His expression turned sly. “You just wanna be alone with Ma-a-ark!”  
   
 “Keyop, I have other stuff to do, okay? There are some lab reports I want to read.”  
   
 “Lab reports?”  
   
 “Sure. Follow-up stuff from some of the things that have been salvaged after we’ve brought down those weird Spectra ships. Sometimes I like to know exactly what it was I was blowing up.”  
   
 Keyop rolled his eyes. “Whatever! The rest of us are going to the park. Catch up when you’re ready.”  
   
 When Jason, Tiny and Keyop had left, Mark spoke up. “Are you really reading lab reports, Princess?”  
   
 Princess stared resolutely at the screen. Anywhere but at the desk drawer. “Yes, Commander. I’m reading lab reports.”  
   
 Mark swivelled his chair around to face Princess’ back. “What, seriously?”  
   
 Princess turned in her own chair and rolled it to one side with a shove of her foot to reveal the screen she’d been reading. “Metallurgical analysis of that weird whip weapon you captured from Captain Doom back in ‘sixty-one. They’re calling it, ‘urgosium.’ Apparently, someone in the lab wanted to give it the code-name ‘whisker’ and triggered some kind of e‑mail flame war. But,” she added, “now we’ve got access to more of the metal, funding’s been approved for a project to look at potential new weapons applications for urgosium alloy. Special Projects Division wants to look at developing new urgosium weapons for G-Force, like maybe a new edge on your boomerang, for instance.”  
   
 “Really?” Mark frowned. “I don’t know that I want something that sharp in my jeans pocket,” he said.  
   
 “In which case,” Princess said, “I’ll submit a recommendation that any new proposals be thoroughly vetted by our Occupational Health and Safety people before any prototypes are produced.”  
   
 “Thanks, Princess. It’s great that you’re on the ball with all that kinda stuff.”  
   
 “I guess that’s why I’m the technical officer,” Princess said with a smile.   
  
 Mark turned back to his workstation and resumed the laborious task of filing all his overdue reports. Princess did likewise and continued reading, all the while wondering when Mark would be done.  
   
 “Princess?” Mark said.  
   
 “Yeah?” Princess scribbled a note about the potential inclusion of urgosium in ceramic alloy compounds.  
   
 “Why do you keep looking at the desk drawer?”  
   
 Princess froze. “What do you mean, Mark?”  
   
 “You keep glancing over at your desk drawer. The one you said was broken.”  
   
 “I do?”  
   
 “You do.”  
   
 “Wow, really? I guess the stuck drawer must be bothering me… on a… subconscious level or something.”  
   
 “You seriously expect me to believe that?” Mark challenged. He turned his chair around.  
   
 Princess turned around and stood up. She folded her arms. “I’ll have you know that I have a very complex subconscious. A _female_ subconscious! Which makes it even more complex in complicated ways that are so complex you can’t even begin to comprehend the complexity.”  
   
 Mark frowned. “There’s something in that desk drawer that you don’t want me to see,” he concluded.  
   
 Princess thought fast, trying desperately to recall some of the more interesting conversations she’d had with the women on Chief Anderson’s security detail.  
   
 “You’re right,” she said. “It’s a vibrator.”  
   
 Mark’s face went pink.  
   
 “A what?” he asked, choking on the words.  
   
 “It was… uh… you know Tupperware parties?” Princess asked, thinking on her feet.  
   
 “What?”  
   
 “At Tupperware parties,” Princess ploughed on, “you can win prizes and stuff. Well this was kinda like that only it was more of a girls-only thing and instead of a salad-spinner or something, I won this vibrator and, um, I, ah… well… I was going to let one of the other girls have it because… um… I don’t think I’m exactly… uh, in the market, so to speak, for, y’know...”  
   
 “I…” Mark said. “I think I’m going to go get a glass of water.”  
   
 Princess nodded her agreement. “Okay, you do that. Don’t forget to log off. Security protocols, remember?”  
   
 Once Mark was out of the room and safely on his way to the staff kitchen, Princess logged out of her own terminal, then made a dive for the desk drawer, opened it and grabbed the tea-towel-wrapped bundle therein. She shut the drawer and fled the office.  
   
 Lieutenant Colonel Jones was sitting behind her desk, working on a document when Princess hurried in to the tiny room.  
   
 “You have to take it back!” Princess declared, shoving the bundle into Jones’ arms.  
   
 “All right,” Jones said. She hid the bundle in her shoulder bag before putting the bag away under the desk. “What’s the matter?”  
   
 “Mark nearly found it. I told him it was a vibrator.”  
   
 “You what?”  
   
 “It was the only way I could be a hundred percent sure he wouldn’t make any attempt to see it,” Princess reasoned.  
   
 “That’s… actually a stroke of genius,” Jones decided. “Well done, you.”  
   
 “What, really?”  
   
 “Yes, really.”  
   
 “Oh, uh, thanks.”  
   
 “Of course now _I’m_ not going to be able to look at it because the connotations are just ghastly.”  
   
  _“Al!”_  
   
 “Don’t blame me,” Jones said. “You’re the one who told Mark it was a vibrator!”  
   
   
   
   
  _“But I promised!”_ 7-Zark-7 wailed, wringing his mechanical hands together.  
   
 “Zark,” Anderson said, “do I need to invoke an official executive override code?”  
   
  _“You know, Chief,”_ Zark said, _“I’d actually prefer it if you did. That way I wouldn’t have a choice. I’d like to be able to think that I’m a robot of honour.”_ The artificial voice actually quavered on the last word.  
   
 “Oh, for crying out loud!” Anderson said. “You’re also a robot of conspiracy, you realise that?” He closed the channel in disgust.  
   
   
   
   
 Tiny swallowed a mouthful of ice cream and waved. “There you are!” he exclaimed as Princess made her way down the path.  
   
 “About time!” Keyop declared. He popped the last of his waffle cone in his mouth and chewed, crunching down on the last of the crisp, sugary wafer. “What were you doing?”  
   
 “I told you,” Princess said. “I was catching up on reports. You know I’ve got extra work to do since the Chief gave me this traineeship.”  
   
 “I thought it was just for your cover,” Tiny said.  
   
 “It’s a real job,” Princess said, “and I like it.”  
   
 “Give Princess a break,” Jason said. “If she wants to do the whole ‘Galaxy Security trainee’ thing well, then let her. Not much point in giving something only fifty percent.”  
   
 Princess found herself smiling, grateful for the unexpected support. “You’d know, Jase,” she said.  
   
 “Yeah.” Jason’s grin was swift. “Why race if you don’t plan on winning? Right, Mark?” When there was no answer from Mark, Jason cast around to see where his leader had gone. “Hey! Wait up! Princess is here!”  
   
 Mark had walked some distance down the path and was examining a complicated installation that seemed to involve cattle and pitchforks. The others hurried to catch up.  
   
 Keyop tapped at the information unit next to the sculpture. _“Dishonour on Your Cow,”_ he read aloud. “What the heck is that?”  
   
 Tiny tilted his head as far as it would go to the left. “It kind of makes more sense if you look at it like this,” he suggested.  
   
 “Mark?” Princess ventured. “Is everything okay?”  
   
 Mark blushed and looked away. “Fine,” he said.  
   
  _Uh-oh._  
   
   
   
   
 Movement in the doorway had Anderson glancing up to see Gunnery Sergeant McAllister, hat in hand. “I’m about to leave for the day, sir. Is there anything you need before I go?”  
   
 “No, thanks, Gunny,” Anderson said. “Oh, wait. Has Lieutenant Colonel Jones left yet?”  
   
 “No, sir,” McAllister said. “She doesn’t usually go until after seventeen hundred, but I think I heard her say something to Miss Anderson about going home a little earlier today.”  
   
 “Thanks,” Anderson said. “Good night, Gunny.”  
   
 It wasn’t long before a warning tone from the computer alerted Anderson that his liaison officer was on the move. He strolled out into the corridor to intercept her outside Conference Room 2.  
   
 “Leaving so soon?” he asked.  
   
 “Oh,” Jones said. “Well, there’s a meeting of the Center City Horticultural Society tonight and I was hoping I might be able to go. The head gardener from the Presidential Palace is giving a talk on soil pH and hydrangeas.”  
   
 “Sounds riveting,” Anderson said. “Al, this has gone on long enough. Zark has surveillance footage of this morning’s meeting and while I know he promised not to tell, I’m the Chief of Staff, remember? I can override any promise that thing makes to anyone. I’d rather not have to do that.”  
   
 Jones considered for a moment before capitulating. “In here,” she muttered, and opened the door to the conference room.  
   
 “Are you going to lock the door?” Anderson asked.  
   
 “I probably should, but most of the admin staff have gone home and we might as well get this over with,” Jones said. She put her shoulder bag down on the conference table and withdrew what looked like a rolled-up tea-towel. “Here,” she said.  
   
 Anderson took the object and unrolled the fabric. He stared at the object in his hands for a moment. _"Mister Potato Head?"_    
  
Jones walked toward the window and adjusted the set of her jacket. She came to a stop next to the white board on the wall. As with so many white boards, there was an apparently random selection of pens and an eraser with the plastic holder missing on the aluminium tray. Absently, Jones started putting the pens back in the holder where they were supposed to be kept, point down as per the manufacturer’s instructions. "I'm afraid so, sir."  
   
 "Not a bad likeness, taking into account the fact that it's a potato. I haven't seen one of these in years." Anderson held the doll up and chuckled.  
   
 "You can't possibly find this amusing," Jones said.  
   
 "I can see the funny side."  
   
 "It's disrespectful! It's unprofessional, it's --"  
   
 "Al, it's a Mister Potato Head."  
   
 Mr Potato Head had been modified, its features meticulously altered down to the hair colour, the suit and the _pince nez_ spectacles. Heaven -- and whoever had assembled it -- knew where the rubber brain had been obtained and the tiny plastic scalpel probably came from an "Operation" game or similar. The effigy was lobotomising the brain and the sign that hung from the doll's arm read, 'THE THOUGHT POLICE ARE WATCHING YOU.' Underneath in smaller print was the sub-caption, 'Loose your mind with Galaxy Security.'  
   
 Anderson took a moment to deal with the mental image of loose minds running amok within his organisation before speaking again. "Look, Al, we knew the security review would be unpopular. We've had to tighten up and take measures that some people see as draconian. This isn't unexpected."  
   
 "It's inappropriate. We have processes and channels. We have _flow charts_!" Jones put the last of the pens back in the holder with a stabbing motion that made the pens clatter against the plastic.  
   
 Anderson began to walk away with the effigy. "And you were doing so well for a while, there," he said as he neared the door.  
   
 "Pardon, sir?"  
   
 "At lightening up." He reached for the door handle, listening for the subtle sounds behind him. There: the tap of nails against the aluminium tray of the whiteboard, the soft scuff of a shoe on the carpet. _One... Two... Now._ He ducked to one side, turning as he did so, and caught the whiteboard eraser as it passed through the empty air where his head would have been. "Nice shot," he remarked. "Your aim's improving."  
   
 "I'm getting plenty of practice in, sir."  
   
 “Okay, Al,” Anderson said. “As far as the rest of the staff are concerned, I’ll back you to the hilt. You have my support, one hundred percent. Officially, I disapprove of this, but between you and me, I think Mister Potato Head’s hilarious and I’m keeping him.”  
   
 Anderson walked over to the conference table and pulled out one of the chairs so that he could sit down. He put the modified toy on the table. “So, who’s responsible for this little piece of post-modern artistic expression? Did Zark’s surveillance feed catch whoever came up with this?”  
   
 “Unfortunately, no,” Jones said. “It was sent through the internal mail and tracked back as far as this floor, which was where the trail went cold. The mail room robots scanned the parcel as clean and opened it. There were no fingerprints. Whoever put it together knew their stuff when it came to forensic evidence. There were no electronics, no toxins, no biologicals and no incendiary components. In fact, the most dangerous substance the scanners found was iso-propyl alcohol residue from where the thing had been wiped clean. It had to be a statement of some kind. It isn’t worth using up resources to run a full investigation at this stage. We’re not _actually_ the Thought Police, after all.”  
   
 “So, since **apprehension** of our home-grown satirist was unlikely, you decided to put the Fear of Al into the troops?” Anderson surmised.  
   
 “Yes, sir.”  
   
 “And I take it you categorise this thing as part of the stupidity you’re supposed to intercept before it gets to me?”  
   
 “Just as you say, sir.”  
   
 “Okay. I get why you did it, and I’m not mad, at you or the person who did this. I’ve been lampooned worse than this by the mass media. Let’s ease up on the campaign of terror for now. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink before you head off to this meeting of yours. ” Anderson got up, shoved the chair back into position with one foot and scooped up the Mr Potato Head doll. “Are you seriously going to spend the evening listening to someone talk about _dirt_?”  
   
 “ _Soil condition_ happens to be extremely interesting when it comes to hydrangeas,” Jones pointed out as they left the conference room.  
   
 “Oh come on!” Anderson said. “It’s _dirt_ …”  
   
   
   
   
 “How disappointing was that?” Keyop asked the world in general. “Any one of those sculptures could have turned into a giant terror machine… well, maybe not the one that looked like a pair of singing shorts, but nearly any one of the sculptures could have turned into a giant terror machine and none of them did anything!”  
   
 “Well, maybe you should send Zoltar a letter of complaint,” Princess suggested. “Tell him he’s letting the side down.”  
   
 “I should totally do that,” Keyop agreed.  
   
 “Oh, man!” Tiny shook his head. “Let’s not go giving the purple weirdo any more ideas than he already has!”  
   
 “What do you mean?” Keyop asked. “None of those sculptures were any freakier than what he usually comes up with… Except the one with the shorts.”  
   
 “I guess,” Princess said. “What do you think, Mark?”  
   
 Mark glanced at Princess, blushed and quickly looked away again. “I guess so,” he mumbled.  
   
 Princess suppressed a sigh. “Mark,” she began. Her communicator sounded and she glanced down at her wrist. “Just a sec’ while I take this,” she said. “Hi, Zark. What’s up?”  
   
 Jason took advantage of the momentary distraction and leaned in to speak to Mark. “Man, what’s bugging you?” he murmured.  
   
 Mark shot his second a tortured look. “I… I can’t really tell you,” he said miserably.  
   
 Princess was finishing her conversation with Zark. “So, the cat’s out of the bag, huh?” she said.  
   
  _“Yes, Princess,”_ Zark said. _“The situation’s resolved and there’s no longer a need for secrecy. Center Neptune Control, out.”_  
   
 Princess turned to Mark. “Mark? C’mere. I need to tell you about a funny thing that happened at the office today…” She grabbed Mark’s arm and hauled him off the path. They headed to the shade of a nearby tree and Princess began to recount the events of the day.  
   
 Keyop turned to Jason. “What’s all that about?”  
   
 “Don’t ask me,” Jason said. “Relationship stuff, probably.”  
   
 “I thought they weren’t supposed to have one,” Tiny said, frowning.  
   
 “Of course they don’t,” Jason said. “Not… a big-R _Relationship_ -relationship, but they do have a… well, kind of… a small-r relationship… really close friendship… thing… going on.”  
   
 “I’m going to ask the cerebonic team if I can stop ageing at fourteen,” Keyop declared. “That way I’ll get taller, but I won’t have to grow up and be totally messed up like you guys!”  
   
   
   
   
 On Planet Mark, comprehension was dawning. “Mister Potato Head?” Mark echoed.  
   
 “Yes,” Princess said. “Al told me to keep it secret, so… so I just said something that I knew would make you not want to look. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make you _that_ uncomfortable.”  
   
 “I really don’t know what to say,” Mark said.  
   
 “Maybe we could just forget it about it?” Princess suggested. “I mean, I obviously don’t own a… y’know, so, you could maybe stop staring at me like I’m going to start waving something embarrassing around in public, which I wouldn’t do even if I did own one. Could we just go back to normal, now?”  
   
 Mark smiled, his expression sheepish. “Yeah,” he said. “I shouldn’t be uncomfortable about… well, I guess the shrinks would call it a normal and healthy expression of human sexuality, but… uh… I guess the thought of a… device like that in your office desk drawer just weirded me out.”  
   
 “Now that you put it like that,” Princess said, “I think it might be weirding me out a little, too. Just promise me you won’t _ever_ look in any of Shay’s magazines, no matter how desperate you are for reading material, okay?”  
   
 Mark paled. “You have my word,” he said.  
 


	14. Bradbury's Jar #274 - Inestimable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guy walks into a bar...

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name.  
  
Other times, you want to go where everybody has a security clearance and carries a weapon.  
  
In my experience, Amano’s Bar can be both.  
  
Situated directly across the road from the ISO Tower and owned by a couple of retired Galaxy Security officers, Amano’s is the logical choice of watering-hole for personnel working at the Tower. Given Galaxy Security’s high level of representation at the ISO Tower, the majority of Amano’s regular patrons work for me.  
  
A significant number of these customers wear uniforms and carry weapons when on duty. A significant number of these carry weapons when not on duty.  
  
Amano’s is the kind of bar where you can go if you think you’re looking for trouble. See, looking for trouble in a venue full of weary, highly trained and well-armed Galaxy Security personnel who want nothing more than to concentrate on winding down after a long shift is a lot like looking for sand at the beach. You’d have to work really hard at it not to find any. (If I were going to carry the metaphor too far, I could add that in some cases, you need look no further than your own underwear, but as I said, that would be carrying things too far.)  
  
Amano’s definitely isn’t the kind of place you want to go to sing karaoke. The last thing a group of weary, highly-trained and well-armed people want to hear while concentrating on winding down – _with alcohol_ – after a long shift is some drunken fool singing slightly off-key and just out of synch with a synthesised backing track. I wasn’t there when it happened, but I heard the story of how a karaoke machine had been installed at Amano’s and been shot to pieces within hours. I had my Liaison Officer contact Ken and Joe (the owner/managers of the bar) in the hope of pre-empting a formal complaint and we negotiated a discreet financial settlement. Interestingly, Joe later said that he chose not to plaster over the bullet holes in the wall since they added ‘character’ to the place. To my mind, they also served as a warning, which was fine by me, since I was in complete agreement with whoever it was who shot the karaoke machine in the first place. (I deliberately didn’t ask Zark for the surveillance feed. I wasn’t going to punish someone for doing what any sane and reasonable person with a high-calibre sidearm would have done under the circumstances.)  
  
On this particular evening, customers were seated at tables and at the bar while others stood and a few played the obligatory games of pool on a table in one corner. A piano player was concentrating on delivering a rendition of _It Had to be You_ while rather pointedly not looking at the ‘character’ holes in the nearby wall.  
  
I have to admit that since joining the Executive team, and especially since taking up the mantle of Chief of Staff, I don’t frequent Amano’s Bar as often as I used to. ‘Frequent,’ is probably the wrong word, come to think of it. My visits are infrequent enough to be notable for their rarity.  
  
Still, discretion is a much-prized quality in Galaxy Security staff members, and while there were a few second glances and even the odd curious stare as I walked in to the bar, the customers invariably shrugged and turned their attention back to their drinks in silent acknowledgement of the principle that people don’t go to Amano’s to be recognised. People go to Amano’s to drink and to avoid listening to karaoke.  
  
After the Mister Potato Head incident, I’d offered to buy my Liaison Officer a conciliatory drink. She took me up on it and the obvious place to go was Amano’s. I wasn’t particularly flattered – her other option was the Center City Horticultural Society listening to someone talk about soil pH and some kind of flowering plant. Alberta Jones likes gardening. It’s one of many things we don’t have in common. The closest I’ve been to gardening was bleeding on those damned carnivorous flowers from Planet Spectra.  
  
It was a weeknight, so the bar wasn’t terribly crowded, but there were still quite a few tables occupied, since a lot of G-Sec personnel work rotating rosters which means that their days off are often not taken on weekends. It was one of the things that kept Ken and Joe in business and able to afford vacations on Planet Eden, if the talk was to be believed.  
  
Lieutenant Colonel Jones and I were in no danger of being left alone and unsupervised. Captain Josh Maxwell, the officer second-in-charge of my personal security detail and his offsider Lieutenant Nathan Thorne shadowed me dutifully. My security detail is one of the reasons I don’t go to bars a lot: they can be somewhat intimidating to other patrons and I consider it cruel and unusual (even for me) to force them to accompany me to a bar where they can’t order a drink.  
  
The first factor isn’t really an issue at Amano’s, but the second definitely applies. I looked around as we walked toward the bar: there at one of the tables was my Security Coordinator: the **inestimable** Major Shay Alban, casual and relaxed in civilian garb, talking with a man I recognised as Lieutenant Colonel Polus Garrett, Head of Security at the Rigan Embassy. Princess had mentioned something about Shay seeing Colonel Garrett and said she thought it was romantic. Shay had snorted and asked if that was what they were calling it now? I refrained from passing comment. The Modern Woman remains a mystery to me.  
  
It was that Feminine Mystique that kept the still-nebulous question floating around in my brain from managing to find form. I really wasn’t sure how to broach the subject without getting myself into trouble of one kind or another.  
  
We gravitated toward a spot at the bar where there were a few empty seats. Al put her purse on the bar and perched on one of the stools. Unlike Maxwell and Thorne, she often wore civilian business attire to work. ISO Liaison Officers are meant to appear approachable and Al’s version of approachable involved a charcoal grey trouser suit and a high necked white silk blouse. The jacket was cut to accommodate a shoulder holster, but as she got up onto the stool, the fabric moved and outlined the gun she was carrying, the effect of which was probably the opposite of approachable. Knowing Al, the gun wouldn’t have been the only weapon she had about her person. There’s a saying among Galaxy Security personnel: the gun is there to give your opponent a false sense of security. Disarming a G-Sec officer usually puts you within range of their knife, tactical baton, fists, feet and/or any blunt object that may be within reach. It’s something you don’t want to try at home.  
  
I still wasn’t sure if I’d offended Al earlier in the day. I’d attempted to intimidate her into handing over a mystery object and it hadn’t worked. Normally, stepping into someone’s personal space puts them off balance. I’d expected Al to have to take her hands from behind her back to regain that balance, at which point I could have swiped the object she was holding.  
  
Instead, she’d backed up against the counter in the conference room and my momentum had carried me way too close. I should have stepped away at that point, but something made me persist.  
  
Al didn’t break – a stubborn streak is one of the things we do have in common – but stood stock-still for a few seconds, holding eye contact before she moved one knee just enough to let me know that if I made a wrong move, she could retaliate in such a way that I wouldn’t forget it in a hurry. It was around then that my sanity returned from whatever rock it had been hiding under and I did, somewhat belatedly, step away and allow her to leave the room.  
  
She hadn’t given me any clues as to whether or not she was upset… well, not apart from throwing a whiteboard eraser at my head, but that was over something completely different. At least, I was fairly certain that it was. Probably. Most likely… Maybe.  
  
Basically, I was lost without a map and was trying to figure out (a) _whether_ I should ask for directions; and if the answer to (a) was, ‘yes,’ then (b) _how_ I should go about asking for directions. At least I had some idea of who to ask.  
  
Maybe it was best to just ask.  
  
I took a seat on the stool next to Al. “You know,” I said, “I’m still trying to figure out whether or not I’m supposed to apologise for this morning.”  
  
“Really?” Al said, outwardly nonchalant. (I was unsure as to whether I should interpret this as a danger sign.) She unbuttoned her jacket and I caught a glimpse of the shoulder holster with its automatic pistol. “Why’s that?”  
  
“Well…” I ventured cautiously, “sometimes apologising is the right thing to do, and… and other times you end up apologising for apologising.”  
  
“Ah,” Al said. She crossed one knee over the other, which had the effect of moving her left foot a few inches away from my knee. She was wearing dangerously high heels which looked amazing and could probably deliver a frightening number of pounds per square inch if she decided to use them as a weapon. “So, if you were going to apologise, what _exactly_ would you be apologising _for_?”  
  
This was clearly some kind of test. What the subject might have been was anybody’s guess. (I was pretty sure that it wasn’t math, though. Possibly it had something to do with quantum, but then I’ve always found quantum physics a lot easier to understand than the aforementioned Feminine Mystique… which is probably where they get the ‘Mystique’ part of the name.) My mind raced. “Uh… I’m thinking… a kind of… generic sort of apology, thing?”  
  
“Generic?” Al echoed. The foot in its high-heeled shoe moved in time with the music from the piano. “No, sorry, not doing it for me.”  
  
“You think I should be more specific?” I inferred.  
  
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Al countered, refusing to be drawn.  
  
I took a breath and let it out again. Al had a damned-near impenetrable Ice Queen façade that she used to great effect when she wanted to, but this was somehow different. The Ice Queen would stare straight ahead, face impassive liked carved marble, but Al was leaning back, ostensibly watching and listening to the pianist launch into _I Put a Spell on You._ She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye and I noticed how her lips were curving upward, just slightly.  
  
“You’re enjoying this,” I accused her.  
  
The pale eyebrows lifted and her eyes widened fractionally. “You might think that,” Al said. “I couldn’t possibly comment.” The _Mona Lisa_ had nothing on the _Mona Alberta._  
  
I tried another tack: “Shay said you were flustered.”  
  
“Did she?” Al picked up a drinks menu and pretended to study it. “Interesting choice of words. I suppose it might have looked that way. After all, I’d just dashed up and down the corridors and concealed a Mister Potato Head doll from my Chief of Staff.”  
  
“Are you mad about that?” I angled.  
  
“About what?”  
  
“About my reaction to the Mister Potato Head thing.”  
  
“Of course not.” She made genuine eye contact and her voice had a ring of sincerity to it. “You said you’d back me where the other staff are concerned. I appreciate your support, even though we might disagree on the merits of expressing dissatisfaction with Galaxy Security policy by way of a satirical Mister Potato Head. I suppose in hindsight, I wouldn’t have found it nearly as annoying if the grammar had been correct.”  
  
“Well, yes,” I said, recalling how the doll’s maker had suggested people could ‘loose’ their minds with Galaxy Security. “There was that. On the bright side, at least they wrote ‘are’ and ‘you’ out in full rather than using text-speak.”  
  
“Yes, quite,” Al said, and smiled – really smiled, this time. I figured now was as good a time any to say _damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead..._ well, maybe ahead two-thirds.  
  
“Did you really think I was going to do something… improper?” I asked. “I mean, the knee and everything…”  
  
“Appearances,” Al explained. “Regardless of what I may or may not have thought, to an outside observer, it may have appeared as though you – and by extension, I – might have been about to engage in less-than-professional conduct, which meant I might have had to think on my feet if anyone came in.”  
  
She actually had a pretty good point. Still, I had to ask. “Would you actually have kneed me in the groin?”  
  
“Possibly,” Al said. “It depends who it might have been.”  
  
“I seem to recall it was me,” I said.  
  
“No, no,” Al corrected. “Who it might have been coming in to the room.”  
  
“So, you would have dropped me and then said something like, ‘And that’s how you disable an attacker using an ordinary office paperclip,’ that kind of thing?”  
  
“Precisely,” Al said. “Isn’t it nice when we’re on the same page?”  
  
The view was different from where I was sitting. “Not this particular page, no, not really,” I said. “So…” I tried again. “If you weren’t ‘flustered,’ what were you?”  
  
Al’s gaze slid away and she turned toward the bar where Joe was on duty. He approached with his usual friendly demeanour.  
  
“The usual?” he asked.  
  
“Something different tonight, Joe,” Al said. “I think I’ll have a Martini.” She directed a sidelong glance at me, just the barest flicker of contact and smiled that mysterious smile again. “Stirred, not shaken.”  
  
“And you, sir?” Joe prompted, turning to me.  
  
I caught Al’s gaze and held it. She arched one eyebrow at me. “I’ll have what she’s having,” I decided.  
  
Al chuckled softly as Joe left to mix the drinks. When she spoke, she lowered her voice so that I was the only one who heard what she said next. “Good thing I didn’t order a Screaming Orgasm,” she murmured.  
  
I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad _not_ to be in the process of drinking coffee. “Another time, perhaps,” I said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a drink called a Screaming Orgasm which is made using 1/3 oz. each of Vodka, Amaretto, Triple Sec and White Crème de cacao, and 1 oz. of light cream. It's apparently a variation on its predecessor, the Orgasm, which may be made using equal parts Amaretto, Kahlúa and Baileys Irish Cream, or equal parts Baileys, Amaretto, half and half (cream) and Kahlúa. Your humble correspondent suspects that the only way Chief Anderson would actually drink one of these would be in response to a dare. Or some pretty serious subtext.


	15. Bradbury’s Jar#275 – Opposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astrology for beginners.

“Tell me again why we’re doing this,” Jason sighed. He badly wanted to loosen the bow tie he was wearing but didn’t dare.  
  
“You know why we’re doing this,” Mark muttered back, holding his champagne flute as though he were drinking from it. “Stay on song.”  
  
“Right now, the song is a funeral march,” Jason hissed.  
  
“Tiny seems to have found a tune he likes,” Mark observed.  
  
Jason deliberately turned so that he was looking at an angle from where Tiny was chatting with a young woman with pink hair. He could only see the girl's back. There was an abundance of bouffant curls, all coloured bright candy pink. “You’re kidding me,” Jason murmured.  
  
Mark touched a fingertip to his wristband to open a comms channel. The tiny comm unit he was wearing in his left ear activated with a soft hiss of white noise. “Zark, can you patch through an audio feed from Tiny’s pickup?”  
  
_“Yes, Commander,”_ 7-Zark-7 responded amiably.  
  
_“…And, like, I’m totally ruled by Venus, ‘cause it’s my rising sign,”_ the young woman was saying.  
  
Jason snagged a canape from a passing waiter then handed it to Mark when he realised it had caviar on it. “Here,” he said.  
  
“Thanks,” Mark said and ate the canape. “Hey, these aren’t bad,” he said once he’d chewed and swallowed.  
  
“Give me a break,” Jason said.  
  
_“Besides which_ ,” the pink-haired girl said to Tiny, _“I’ve got Pluto in **opposition** to Venus, which is like, life versus death, kinda thing, so I figure I need to do that carping deeum thing and live life to the full, y’know?”_  
  
_“Uh… you mean_ carpe diem _? ‘Sieze the day?’”_ Tiny replied.  
  
_“Exactly! Oh, wow, I feel like we’re so resonating with each other right now!_ ”  
  
“C’mon,” Jason said and led Mark around the edge of the garden, dodged a couple of waiters, managed to grab a chicken vol-au-vent, and finally got a new line of sight on Tiny and his companion.  
  
“Okay,” Mark said, “that’s… that’s not what most people would wear to a garden party.”  
  
“I can’t believe Tiny’s managing to hold eye contact,” Jason said. “Hey!” he protested as Mark kicked him in the ankle.  
  
“Tiny’s a professional,” Mark reproved. After a moment he spoke again. “I notice _you_ aren’t watching her eyes. I thought you had a girlfriend.”  
  
“I’m in a relationship. That doesn’t mean I’m blind,” Jason retorted.  
  
_“So I really think that love is the answer,_ ” the girl said. _“We really should make love, not war. What do you think?”_  
  
_“I think maybe Zoltar has other ideas_ ,” Tiny hedged.  
  
_“We need to start by loving one another,”_ the girl said with a smile.  
  
“Okay,” Jason said. “She’s either a complete nut-case or she’s working for Spectra. Or she’s a complete nut-case _and_ she’s working for Spectra. That wasn’t even real astrology she was spouting off earlier!”  
  
Mark frowned. “How do you know that?”  
  
“Uh…” Jason froze. “Um, well… Fran’s kind of in to that stuff,” he mumbled.  
  
Mark stifled a chuckle. “Okay, Doctor Strange, I’ll bite. We monitor Miss Astrology and see if she tries anything. Maybe when we get back to Center Neptune you can do our horoscopes for us.”  
  
“Shut up, Mark.”  



	16. Bradbury’s Jar #276 – Sleeping Condor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rather exclusive club meets to consider a membership application.

Gods.  
  
There are more of them around than you might think.  
  
A lot of them drive taxis.  
  
Anyone who has ever sat, white-knuckled in the back of a speeding cab, wondering how it could be humanly possible to drive at breakneck velocity through traffic, breaking rules and avoiding collisions while carrying out a conversation on a hands-free cell-phone _and_ holding forth to their terrified passengers about everything that’s wrong with the world today has probably met one.  
  
After all, gods feed on belief, and there’s an awful lot of praying (as well as blasphemy and cursing – which still counts as belief) that goes on in traffic. Cities are like giant soup-kitchens for slumming gods.  
  
There are old gods and new gods; classical gods and powerful gods; small gods and seemingly-insignificant gods, all held together by their need for belief and offerings.  
  
Aphrodite, Priapus (especially Priapus), Eros and any number of fertility gods have all wished they could be invoked with the expression, “Oh f***!” Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. You may be sure that they’ve tried.  
  
Some gods adapt to the times. Mercury, for instance, is living large on the information superhighway. He’s really into high-speed internet and says it beats winged sandals for a lark any day. Tyr, Odin, Thor and Freya never really went out of style thanks to the calendar (and in Thor’s case, a popular comic book) but they still get pretty nervous about all that Ragnarok business.  
  
The gods meet regularly in a pan-dimensional bar just off any number of little side streets and alleyways all around the Galaxy. It’s one of those miniscule bubble universes, a place that exists just a sideways step from reality like a zit on the side of the Cosmic Nose.  
  
On this particular day, the gods were meeting to cast a vote.  
  
The avian gods had formed a little cluster prior to the meeting and were speaking quietly among themselves in muted tones.  
  
“…Just because we’re considered _totems_ doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be given just as much of a hearing as anyone else,” declared Wanbli the Eagle. “Isn’t that right, Apo? Apo?” The Eagle glanced over where the Andean Condor was snoozing in an armchair. “Would somebody please…?”  
  
“Fine, fine,” said the Owl, and flicked the **sleeping Condor** on the beak. “Wake up, Apo. What’s with you anyway?”  
  
“Exhausted,” the Condor said. “Had that ceremony in Peru today – y’know, the one where I inhabit the flesh of my earthly representative tied to a bull and get paraded around to symbolise indigenous defiance? I’m wiped, sis.”  
  
“Well, wake up and pay attention,” Owl hissed. “You can sleep when we’re done.”  
  
“All right,” the Condor protested. “I’m awake, _Mom_.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Garuda said, holding out bejewelled hands in a gesture of placation. “We’re all in the same boat. Chill out. We need to agree on our position and maintain solidarity.”  
  
“Absolutely,” Tengu agreed, adjusting the sleeves of her kimono. “The Spectran gods are really annoyed about it, and apart from everything else, G-Force are really good for business.”  
  
“Yes,” a tiny voice piped, and a variety of heads swung and scanned until they found the Wren, perched on a hat stand. “We have a vested interest in their success.”  
  
“We do,” agreed Thoth. “Owl, did you sound out Athena?”  
  
“Of course I did,” Owl said. “We go way back. She’s on side.”  
  
“I’m so glad you guys are coming out in support,” said Tiafaz, the Falovian Mountain god of the skies, ruffing multicoloured feathers. The Spectran glanced about and lowered its voice. “It isn’t easy back home. Quite apart from the popularity of the whole cat motif with the military, I’ve been losing devotees left right and centre!”  
  
There was a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder that made everybody jump.  
  
“Ease up on the hammer there, son,” Odin said. He waved a hand and the pile of rubble that had until a few seconds ago been the bar reassembled itself.  
  
“Sorry,” Thor said with a shrug. “I meant to pick up the gavel, but you know Mjollnir. It keeps wanting to jump into my hand.”  
  
“I call this meeting to order!” Zeus declared.  
  
The gods gathered around the restored bar, where Zeus and Odin were co-chairing the meeting.  
  
“Now,” Odin said, “we have one item of business to attend to, namely this: is the Great Spirit of Spectra really one of us?”  
  
Wanbli stepped forward with the Wren at his left and Garuda at his right. “The Bird Gods say no,” he said.  
  
There was a mutter of support among the birdlike deities.  
  
“Anyone else?” Zeus asked. “Daughter?” he nodded toward Athena, who had raised her hand.  
  
“I say whatever that thing is,” the Hellenic Goddess of Wisdom said, “it is not one of us.”  
  
“Anyone want to say anything in support of a counter-argument?” Odin prompted.  
  
The room was silent.  
  
“Okay,” Odin said. “Voting time. All those in favour of the Great Spirit of Spectra being declared a god, raise your… um… raise an extremity.”  
  
Nobody moved.  
  
“Those against?” Odin said.  
  
Hands, wings, talons and in one case, the tail of Queztalcoatl, were raised.  
  
“It’s unanimous,” Zeus declared. “The Great Spirit’s application for membership is hereby declined!”  
  
“Thank goodness for that,” said Odette the Swan. “Can you imagine trying to relax around here with that thing looking at you out of its jar?”  
  
“Hear, hear,” said Wanbli. “Let’s all get a drink.”  



	17. Bradbury's Jar #277 - Integrity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guy gets thrown out of a bar.

“Hey, Ken!” the bartender called. “Need you to settle a debate for me!”  
  
The co-owner of Amano’s bar strolled over to where Kirsty, who was still relatively new to the job, was standing with a customer who looked slightly the worse for wear.  
  
“Sure thing,” Ken said. “What’s the debate about?”  
  
The customer drew himself up with the deliberate dignity of the intoxicated. “It’s quite simple, Kenny boy,” Benjamin Strecker said with a wave of one elegant hand. “Kirsty here says I’m too drunk for her to serve me any more alcohol. _I_ , on the other hand, am still capable of stringing together a coherent sentence, therefore, by definition, I’m not drunk _enough_.”  
  
“Doc,” Ken said with a smile. “Go home. I’ll call you a cab.”  
  
Unsteadily, Strecker got off the stool he’d been using to prop up the bar for most of the afternoon. “No need,” he said. “I’ve got my car. It’s as good a way as any to go out in a blaze o’ glory!”  
  
Fortunately, Strecker was well and truly three sheets to the wind, because Ken had vaulted the bar and was relieving the scientist of his car keys even as Strecker flourished them in one hand.  
  
“Taking yourself out’s one thing, doc,” the bar manager said. “But most drunks end up taking out someone else. Not going to happen tonight, buddy. Not on my watch. I’ll have these sent to your office tomorrow.”  
  
Strecker’s laughter was harsh and bitter.  
  
“My office? _My office_? Oh, Kenny, Kenny, that’s rich. That’s a good one. There, my beamish boy, lies the rub: I no longer _have_ an office. I got fired today.”  
  
“I…” Ken kept a hold of the car keys. “I don’t know what to say, doc.”  
  
“How’s about, ‘Here are your keys, feel free to drive off a cliff’?”  
  
“Sorry,” Ken said. “I can’t let you drive.”  
  
“God, I hate a man of **integrity** ,” Strecker said.  
  
“Cab’s on its way,” Kirsty said, putting the old-fashioned telephone handset down in its charging slot behind the bar.  
  
  
  
  
Having been politely ejected from Amano’s and prevented from entering Curtin’s Bar and Grill a block away, Strecker directed the cabbie to drop him at ‘the most wretched hive of scum and villainy you can find in this town,’ and tipped her an extra twenty on top of the fare.  
  
It turned out that the most wretched hive of scum and villainy in Center City (at least by the cab driver’s reckoning) was Berg’s Babes, a strip joint two doors from Frank’s Autos on the corner of Hart and Levy.  
  
The dancers bumped and ground, but Strecker sat with his back to the stage, focused on the cheap whisky he was drinking.  
  
“This stuff’s disgusting,” he said.  
  
The bartender shrugged, making several of his tattoos jostle for position on his biceps. “People don’t come here for the whisky,” he pointed out.  
  
When the blonde insinuated herself onto the seat next to Strecker, he barely registered her presence, then he noticed that her hair was the same colour as Lily’s and found himself looking her full in the face.  
  
“Hello,” she said. She looked nothing like Lily. Her face was narrow and angular rather than heart-shaped, her eyes green rather than grey, and while she didn’t possess Lily’s classical beauty, she had a certain elegance about her.  
  
“I’m not much fun to be around tonight,” Strecker told the blonde.  
  
“That’s okay,” the blonde said. “Fun’s over-rated. Would you believe I’m supposed to be meeting a client here? _Here_? He was supposed to be here five minutes ago. I’m probably going to bail.”  
  
“Looking for a replacement?” Strecker surmised. “Can’t help you there. I’ve had too much to – Hey!”  
  
The water was cold and it had ice in it, but not as much ice as the blonde’s voice. “I’m _not_ a hooker!”  
  
“Hey,” the bartender said. “If this guy’s outa line, fair enough, but it stops here.”  
  
Strecker brushed the last of the ice from his lap and considered the blonde for a moment. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said. “I incorrectly surmised that you were a provider of personal services.”  
  
“I’m an architect,” the woman said, “and no apartment project is worth another minute spent in this hell-hole!”  
  
“May I buy you a drink by way of an apology?” Strecker asked.  
  
“Just how much _have_ you had to drink?” the blonde asked.  
  
“Enough to be erudite,” Strecker said. “I was aiming for insensible. It isn’t working out for me.”  
  
The woman held out a hand. “Mala Latroz.”  
  
Strecker took the hand and shook it. “Ben Strecker.”  
  
“Nice to meet you, Ben,” the blonde said. “You know, I have a feeling we’re going to get along just fine.”  



	18. Bradbury's Jar #278 - Crunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A technically-innocent-ish bystander is given an excuse.

Ernie O'Brien was a procrastinator. He had always been a procrastinator and probably always would be. This evening, April had finally chivvied him into changing the dead fluorescent tubes that were supposed to illuminate the plastic _Coca Cola_ sign above the door of their all-night convenience store, so Ernie toted the tubes in their (somewhat dusty) protective sheath, a cardboard carton with some tools and an aluminium step ladder out the back door, which opened into the alleyway beside the store, with a view to taking them around the front and doing the work.  
  
It was a nice night, and Ernie paused on the grimy back step to crane his neck upward and catch a glimpse of the night sky.  
  
Against the glow of the city lights, there were no stars to be seen, but there was a little patch of darkening blue that counted as sky, and Ernie's sense of well-being was confirmed, settling comfortably into a spot somewhere around his solar plexus.  
  
He shifted his load around so that he could hook it all against his chest with his left arm, used his right hand to shake a cigarette out of the tattered pack in his pocket, poked the filter in his mouth and fished around in his pockets for his lighter.  
  
“Don't shoot! We want them alive, you idiot!” called an accented voice.  
  
Hell, that sounded like a Spook. Ernie paused in the act of taking hold of his lighter. Goddamned Spooks! Every month, more and more refugees, takin' jobs and welfare even if they weren't spies or fifth columnists or whatever... damned Spooks.  
  
Rapid footfalls followed the voice, the sound carrying down the alleyway.  
  
Ernie watched as a sturdy-looking youth with messy brown hair ran down the alleyway, followed by a skinny boy and a young woman, all of them dressed in jeans and numbered t-shirts. _What the hell?_   Ernie wondered.  
  
It took Ernie a second to realise that the three were being pursued by three burly men in black suits. He shrank back into the doorway, fumbled for the door handle, and dropped his keys.  
  
In pure panic, Ernie froze.  
  
The girl glanced over her shoulder, then called out to her companions: “Here! We can take them on here!”  
  
All three youngsters stopped and turned to face their pursuers.  
  
The burly men pulled up short, seemingly confused at the turn of events.  
  
Ernie clutched the tools and equipment to his chest. A tiny whimper of fear escaped his lips.  
  
The biggest of the men in suits levelled a gun at the youngsters. “I don’t want to have to kill you,” he said, his accent marking him as Spectran, “but Lord Zoltar’s more inclined to forgive me for killing you than he is for letting you escape.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, that’s your problem,” the heavyset youth retorted.  
  
All three of the suited men were carrying hand-guns, but the youngsters paid little heed, moving so quickly that each miss might as well have been a mile.  
  
The young woman closed with one of the men, who was easily twice her size. Her left hand was a blur as it swept in an arc, knocking the gun from her opponent’s right hand while her other hand connected with the man’s chest and he staggered backward. The girl followed up with a punch to the jaw, and the big man folded up into a heap on the ground.  
  
The skinny boy launched a flying kick at the second man, who threw himself forward and down. The boy spun in an acrobatic manoeuvre, landed and leapt again to intercept. The big man was on his feet, and moved quickly to try and parry a flurry of blows. The boy fought silently, with an intent that would have been unnerving in an adult, chilling in one so young.   
  
The boy bounced a kick off his opponent's jaw and the adult dropped, unconscious before he hit the ground.  
  
The big youth faced off with the apparent leader of the Spectrans, who was the largest and most muscular of the three. With startling agility, he kicked and knocked the man’s gun from his grasp, then charged, bearing the suited man into the wall of the store only a few feet from Ernie’s doorway, where the air was knocked out of him in a pained exhalation. The suited man struck back with a series of rapid punches, all of which were blocked by his young opponent.  
  
The stocky youth landed a blow on his opponent’s face. As the man staggered backward, the young man lunged at Ernie. “Is this yours?” he asked, indicating the step ladder.  
  
“Uh… yeah,” Ernie said, cigarette dangling unlit from his lower lip.  
  
“Excuse me,” said the young man, and seized the ladder from Ernie's unresisting grasp.  
  
The box of tools fell to the ground with a chiming clatter. Ernie, whose hands now were unencumbered, scrabbled frantically for his keys.  
  
The young man hefted the step ladder in both hands and swung it so that it connected with the side of the big Spectran's head. The suited combatant measured his length in a crumpled, bleeding shape on the ground. The ladder was carried back to where Ernie stood numbly in his doorway. “Thanks,” said the young man, and thrust the now-dented step ladder back into Ernie's waiting hands.  
  
The woman, who had followed, was removing something from the pocket of her jeans. She handed it to Ernie. “Sorry about the damage,” she said. “If you call this number in the morning, our office will take care of everything. Please excuse us, we can’t hang around. I suggest you go inside and lock your doors. A clean-up crew should be along soon. Come on, you two. We need to meet up with the others.”  
  
The skinny boy giggled. “The boss is good for it!” he told Ernie.  
  
The three young people jogged out of the alleyway. The young woman was talking into a device that looked like a wristwatch.  
  
The cigarette fell out of Ernie's mouth and lay unnoticed on the pavement as he surveyed the alley with its motionless casualties. His eyes focussed on the card in his hand. It was white, linen textured and emblazoned with the crest of Galaxy Security. There was no name but the card bore the legend, ‘OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF STAFF.’ There was a phone number and a web site – gww.galaxysecurity.iso.gov – listed.  
  
Ernie transferred the damaged aluminium ladder to one arm. He turned, and with shaking hands, inserted the key in the deadlock and finally managed to get the door open. He gathered up the box of tools and noted with some dismay the way the cardboard sheath containing the replacement fluorescent tubes made a rather ominous **_crunch_** when he moved it. He stepped inside with his burden.  
  
“April!” he bellowed. “I ain't doin' them lights tonight! Ladder's busted!”


	19. Bradbury's Jar #279 - Coffee vs Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing like a good cup of tea.

“It’s just hot water that’s had leaves dunked in it!” Jason declared.  
  
Mark somehow managed to stop and turn in mid-stride to get an angry finger in front of the bridge of Jason’s nose. For anyone else, this might have been considered suicidal. In Mark’s case, it was merely an indicator of how crotchety he was.  
  
“And coffee’s just hot water that’s been pushed through some crushed beans,” he countered.  
  
“That’s not –” Jason started to say, then his brain caught up with his mouth and he stopped mid-rant.  
  
Staff in the Executive Office Suite on the one hundredth floor of the ISO Tower made themselves scarce and avoided Corridor Two, which contained the well-worn path between Chief Anderson’s office and the executive kitchen, which in turn contained the coffee machine.  
  
Jason took a breath. “Okay, Mark, I take your point. _Why_ can’t the coffee machine make good tea?”  
  
“It’s the water temperature,” Mark argued. “The water has to be at a hundred degrees Centrigrade in order to make tea properly. The stuff that comes out of the coffee machine is just… _wrong_.”  
  
Jason took a moment to consider the new information to hand. “Right,” he said, “because the coffee machine operates at a lower temperature in order to avoid burning the coffee. Okay, I get it. So, how do we get the coffee machine to make tea?”  
  
“We don’t,” Mark said. “We need to boil the water.”  
  
“There’s the microwave,” Jason pointed out.  
  
“It heats the cup up, and if there are any cracks or holes in the porcelain, it can damage the cup – and the microwave when the cup breaks.”  
  
“Oh,” Jason said. Privately, he made a mental note that he appeared to be learning things today. He wasn’t about to admit as much out loud, however.  
  
“Whose bright idea was it to take the old coffee pot and the kettle and replace it with that… that _thing_?” Mark demanded of nobody in particular.  
  
The kitchen door opened and Gunnery Sergeant McAllister entered the corridor carrying two mugs of coffee.  
  
“Gunny?” Jason asked. “Do you know whose idea it was to install the new coffee maker and get rid of the old stuff?”  
  
“Someone in Corporate,” McAllister said. “The new machine makes a fine cup of coffee, but the tea just isn’t up to scratch.”  
  
“Told you,” Mark said.  
  
“It’s the water temperature,” McAllister said.  
  
“Wow,” Jason said. “ _Déjà vu_ , all over again.”  
  
“We could probably take up a collection,” Mark speculated, “and buy a new kettle.”  
  
“Or,” Jason suggested, “we could put our technical training to good use and figure out how to make the machine boil water properly for tea.”  
  
Mark ran a hand through his hair as he considered the idea. “You know,” he said, “you’re right. I mean, between us, we know our way around most systems… Let’s give it a try!”  
  
  
  
**THE NEXT DAY…**  
  
“How are they?” Chief Anderson asked.  
  
Doctor Kate Halloran closed the hospital room door behind her. “They’re healing up just fine,” she said. “We just changed the dressings and everything’s looking good. The burns were mostly superficial and the cuts and scratches are looking much better.” The Chief Medical Officer drew Anderson to one side and lowered her voice. “I’m really only keeping them in the infirmary to teach them a lesson. How’s the executive kitchen looking?”  
  
Anderson sighed. “They’re installing a new coffee machine,” he said, “and I sent Gunny down to the electrical store to buy a kettle for tea.”  
  
“Well,” Kate reasoned with a shrug, “those new machines make great coffee, but lousy tea.”  
  
“So I’ve heard,” Anderson said. “Still, at least we’ve solved that problem.”  
  
  
  
When Chief Anderson returned to his office he found Princess in the executive kitchen, hands on hips, glaring at the coffee machine.  
  
“Hey, Chief,” Princess said, “what do I have to do to get a decent cup of hot chocolate around here?”  
  



	20. Bradbury's Jar #280 - Careless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's funny as long as you aren't actually an orphan.

“How perfectly dreadful!” Princess exclaimed, sitting up straight.  
  
Jason, who hadn’t been paying attention to whatever it was Princess had been watching on the 3V, put his motoring magazine down. “What’s perfectly dreadful? And how can something be dreadful and perfect at the same time anyway?”  
  
“I suppose something can be perfect in its dreadfulness,” Princess said, drawing herself up in defence of the expression. “This character, for instance, this ‘Lady Bracknell’ person, is just awful, and her awfulness is… is… well, I think she’s completely and utterly awful!”  
  
“Lady Bracknell,” Jason echoed. His forehead furrowed in a frown. “Why does that sound familiar?”  
  
“It’s _The Importance of Being Earnest,_ ” Princess said.  
  
“Oh,” Jason said. “Well, why don’t you just change the station if you don’t like it?”  
  
“It isn’t that?” Princess said, “it’s what she says that’s so awful!”  
  
“Princess, it’s just a play. More than that, it’s an _English_ play, straight out of high school literature classes. Didn’t watching that Pinter play last week teach you anything? ‘The comedy of menace,’ my eye! And what was with that darned bucket anyway?”  
  
“What’s got you so het up?” Mark asked, sauntering into the G-Force ready room. “Tiny’s signed off on the _Phoenix’s_ maintenance release, and we’re good to head back to Center City. Keyop’s already half-way through his pre-start checks so you’d both better get a move on.”  
  
“Thank heaven for that!” Jason declared. “Princess, you gotta stop tuning in to this playhouse theatre programme! I mean, last week it was _The Caretaker_ , the week before it was _Pygmalion_ , and now it’s _The Importance of Being Earnest_. I thought we left all that behind when we graduated!”  
  
“I just thought I might watch something intelligent for a change!” Princess said as she stood up and switched the 3V off. “I didn’t expect to hear something so heartless!”  
  
“What was it, anyway?” Mark asked.  
  
“It was Lady Bracknell,” Princess recounted. “She said, _To lose one parent, Mr Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness._ ”  
  
Mark’s mouth fell open. “That’s…”  
  
“Pretty cold, I have to admit,” Jason said. He stood up and tucked his magazine under one arm “And let’s face it, losing parents is a potentially sensitive issue.”  
  
“I think it’s meant to be a play on words,” Mark said.  
  
“It’s horrible!” Princess said.  
  
“Perfectly so,” Jason added wryly. “I have to admit, losing my mother was tragic; but my father was definitely a case of carelessness, albeit not on my part.”  
  
“You found your father,” Princess pointed out.  
  
“Yes, well, once again,” Jason said, “someone was **careless** , and again, not me.”  
  
“Oh, you’re impossible!” Princess declared, and strode out of the ready room.  
  
“I do my best,” Jason said, following his team-mate out into the companionway.  
  
“Whatever you do,” Mark said as Jason passed him, “don’t let her watch _Oedipus Rex_.”  
  



	21. Bradbury's Jar #281 - "It's not you... it's me!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbyes are rarely easy.

Jason turned to go, then stopped. It had to be said.  
  
He retraced the half-step he’d already taken and reached out a hand for one final caress.  
  
“I suppose it was inevitable,” he said. He let out his breath in a long sigh before speaking again. “We had some good times, you and me. You never let me down, not ever, and I’m truly sorry it had to come to this. You never changed, never gave up. I want you to know: **it’s not you… It’s me.** Me and… and Jill… and the others… and the finance company, and I suppose the insurance people as well… I’m sorry. This is goodbye.”  
  
“Jason!” Jill called from the doorway of the café. “Get off the truck, already! The guys need to go!”  
  
Jason complied with a certain reluctance and stayed on the sidewalk to watch the truck leave. When the vehicle was out of sight, he walked back into Jill’s to find a fresh cup of coffee on the countertop.  
  
“Thanks for helping out with the changeover,” Jill said. “I knew you were sentimental about the old machine, but I think you’ll like the new one. This one’s on the house, and so’s lunch.”  
  
Jason picked up the cup and inhaled the aroma. He sipped at the coffee and smiled. “Jill,” he said, “this could be true love all over again!”  



	22. Bradbury's Jar #282 - Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princess puts a hobby to good use.

It had been Tiny who had noticed the suspicious activity near the exits to the entertainment centre and alerted the others. They had made their way to the lobby and ducked into the parenting room where they crammed up against the folding change table while trying to ignore the somewhat distressing odour emanating from the diaper disposal unit.  
  
A quick call to Nerve Center resulted in Tiny’s suspicions being investigated, but before Zark could call back, the distinctive metallic clatter of a Spectran Modith-5 assault rifle (widely regarded as a PoS weapon by the ISO but still not the sort of thing a civilian should mess around with) confirmed the big pilot’s worst fears.  
  
“Once,” Princess said. “Just once, I’d like to go to a concert or an amusement park, or a museum or something _without_ Zoltar and his goons gate-crashing the party!”  
  
“There was that time we got dragged along to that Mozart recital by Grandma Sorcha,” Keyop just had to point out. “Spectra didn’t show up for that.”  
  
“That was the one time I wouldn’t have minded,” Princess said darkly.  
  
“Well I don’t know about you,” Jason said, “but the ambience in here isn’t exactly pleasant.” He fired his cable gun into the ceiling, dislodging one of the panels. “Going up,” he announced. “First floor: rafters, structural components and electrical wiring. Watch your step.”  
  
When the Spectrans checked the rest rooms, they found the parenting room empty, save for the smell.  
  
The G-Force team had transmuted to battle mode and picked their way through the ceiling crawl space until they emerged backstage.  
  
The band and their staff had all been ushered on stage. Mark crept along behind a heavy curtain and listened to a Spectran officer speaking into a radio.  
  
“Squad B, is the perimeter secure?”  
  
“ _Affirmative_ ,” a synthesised voice replied in a monotone. “ _Perimeter is secure. Hail Spectra_.”  
  
Mark made his way back to the others. “They’ve got human officers and android goons,” he reported, keeping his voice low.  
  
Jason nodded. “Good to know. I won’t bother to pull any punches.”  
  
Princess held up a hand to forestall any action. “Wait a second,” she said. “We’re in a concert hall.”  
  
“Ye-e-es,” Mark said. “I kind of noticed that when we had to buy tickets to get in.”  
  
Jason grinned. “You,” he told Princess, “are a genius. No, wait, you’re a super genius. Princess Anderson: Super Genius!”  
  
At Mark’s blank look, Princess said, “There was a report out from Science Division just last month about that training accident with the androids at the Academy in New Zealand.”  
  
“The brown note?” Jason prompted.  
  
“You know I don’t read the geek stuff!” Mark hissed. “I have enough to do keeping up with the bulletins they send me as it is!”  
  
“Same here,” Tiny confessed. “I have to read all the air safety and engineering stuff.”  
  
“I only read it because Jason used the phrase ‘brown note,’” Keyop admitted.  
  
“Sound waves at certain frequencies interfere with android functionality,” Princess explained. “Some students at the ISO Academy in New Zealand found out by accident that they could temporarily disable the training androids using the Academy PA system and effectively cheated on a combat exercise. We’re in a concert hall full of androids, and Dirty Name Five have some really big amps and speakers. I can access the speakers from back here and generate the sound I need from the control board.”  
  
“Do it,” Mark said. “Jason, Tiny, Keyop, you’re with me. We’ll target the officers while Princess takes care of the goons.”  
  
Mark and Jason secured the backstage area, then Princess accessed the sound engineer’s console and nodded to her team-mates. She operated several controls then twisted a dial. A roar of noise burst forth from the concert hall speakers and the rest of G-Force charged into battle.  
  
  
  
Several minutes later, the concert-goers were either hysterical or cheering (some of the more emotional teens were managing to be both at the same time), the band and the crew were applauding, and G-Force were taking the last of the Spectran officers prisoner.  
  
A woman screamed when the androids, as one, twitched and began to get up as the temporary effect of the sonic assault wore off and their systems finished resetting.  
  
A guitar riff tore through the air and ended with a crashing chord that had the androids collapsing again.  
  
Mark looked up toward the stage to see Princess standing with one hand still raised above the guitar she was holding.  
  
“What happened to generating the sound you needed from the control board?” Mark asked.  
  
Princess shrugged and gestured toward the guitar. “I always wanted to do that,” she said.  
  
“Fair enough,” Mark said, and grinned. “ _That’s_ what I call **rock** and roll.”  



	23. Bradbury's Jar #283 - Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The geeks in Galaxy Security R&D have a really bad idea.

“I’m so sorry!” Jason protested, for what was quite possibly the tenth time.  
  
Chief Anderson tugged at the feather dart. It was quite firmly stuck in the wall, as was the lab coat it had pierced on its way to its current location.  
  
“It’s okay,” Anderson said quietly. “It wasn’t your fault. Zark showed me the surveillance footage. Nobody’s going to get into any trouble over this.”  
  
The Chief of Galaxy Security surveyed the scene. The Research and Development staff were clustered in one corner of the break room, fidgeting nervously and muttering amongst themselves. The unfortunate Jasper Kew was conspicuous by his absence but his lab coat remained securely pinned to the wall. The balloons and the large banner were at odds with the air of nervous contrition among the occupants of the room.  
  
Anderson squared his shoulders and turned to address the worried little knot of scientists.  
  
“Doctor Kew’s fine,” he told them. “It was just a scratch and I’ve sent him home. As for the rest of you, I understand that a **surprise** birthday party is a really nice gesture for most people. However, for future reference, I’d like you all to remember that leaping out of a darkened room and shouting ‘Surprise!’ at someone with Jason’s training and reflexes is a _really bad idea_.” Anderson took off his glasses and cleaned them. “Okay,” he said. “Clean up this mess and you can all take the rest of the day off.”  
  



	24. Bradbury's Jar #284 - Greatest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Galaxy Security R&D, they don't just believe in six impossible things before breakfast, they figure out how to achieve them... with mixed results.

At the soft warble from his desk, Security Chief Anderson glanced over at the tele-comm. He reached out and tapped the ‘answer’ key with one finger. “Yes, Gunny?” he prompted.  
  
“Sir,” Gunnery Sergeant McAllister said, “I have Doctor Kew from R and D asking to speak with you.” There was a brief, choking sound on the line, as though the usually-dour Miles McAllister was trying not to laugh. “I think you might need to take this one, sir.”  
  
“Okay, put him through.” Anderson turned his attention to the tele-comm screen, which illuminated with an image of Jasper Kew, the head of Galaxy Security’s Research and Development Department. Anderson noted that the scientist appeared slightly nervous. “Good morning, Doctor Kew,” Anderson said. “How can I help you?”  
  
“Um, right…” Kew swallowed. “Um, sir, I ah, I noticed that the news reports are saying G-Force are back from their mission.”  
  
“Yes, they are,” Anderson said, leaning back in his seat. “Did you need Jason for something? You know he always gets at least twenty-four hours’ down-time after a mission.”  
  
“Ah… yes, I know, sir. I just, um… well… You see, he accidentally took a set of keys with him when he got that last emergency call and we need them back.”  
  
Anderson steepled his fingers and considered the tele-comm screen for a moment. “Don’t you have a spare set?”  
  
“Um… well, yes and no, sir.”  
  
“Yes and no?” Anderson echoed. “What are they, Schroedinger’s Keys or something?”  
  
“Ah-ha, sir, yes, well, very droll. Um… you see, we _do_ have a spare set of keys, but we don’t have a spare remote. The remote’s the thing we actually need. We did make two, but we somehow managed to leave the second one in the car.”  
  
Anderson ran through several possible scenarios in his head before speaking. “If it were anyone else,” he said carefully, “I’d ask why you didn’t simply unlock the car with the key and retrieve the remote, but it isn’t anyone else, is it? What have you done this time? And just so you know, I’m _really_ hoping the word, ‘explosive’ or any of its roots or derivatives isn’t going to feature in whatever you say next.”  
  
“We, um… we can’t actually find the car, sir,” Kew said, shamefaced.  
  
“You _lost_ a car?”  
  
“Not so much _lost_ , as such… more, um a case of _misplaced_ , as it were. I suppose I should start from the beginning...”  
  
  
  
  
“They what?” Jason asked.  
  
Anderson repeated himself.  
  
“Seriously?” Jason began to chuckle.  
  
“I can send a courier to collect the keys,” Anderson said. “You don’t have to come in on your day off.”  
  
“Oh, no,” Jason said. “No, I’m not missing this. Not for anything! Say, why don’t you meet me at R and D in half an hour?”  
  
“You’re right,” Anderson said. “This isn’t something I want to miss either.”  
  
As it happened, none of the G-Force team wanted to miss seeing what R&D had managed to do this time so all five members arrived at the appointed time, to the general mortification of Dr Kew.  
  
Chief Anderson was already there, also to the mortification of Dr Kew.  
  
“I’d really like to know how you did it,” Princess said. “I mean, really, this is a success. The prototype obviously works. It has the potential to be one of the **greatest** advances ever in stealth technology!”  
  
Kew managed a smile. “When you put it that way, Miss Anderson, it doesn’t seem quite as bad.”  
  
“If you can iron out the bugs,” Princess said, “how long do you think it’ll be before we can see an application in the field?” She caught herself and stifled a giggle. “I mean, _not_ -see!”  
  
“Oh, dear,” Kew muttered under his breath, “the sense of humour really does run in the family, doesn’t it?” Raising his voice, he said, “If you’d like to follow me outside to the testing ground?”  
  
Outside, the testing ground with its track and obstacle courses was quiet.  
  
“We’ve shut down all testing programmes until we can return the prototype to the garage, you understand,” Kew said.  
  
“A wise choice,” Anderson said, his tone bleak. “Why don’t you give the others some background?”  
  
“Of course,” Kew said. “We, ah, were given a brief to develop stealth cloaking on as many levels as possible for a small vehicle with a view to deploying same in the field for Galaxy Security personnel engaging in covert operations. Visual stealth was simple enough: we simply employed miniaturised holographic projectors to beam photons from the opposite side of the object through a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree angle. Naturally, we phase both input and output through the vehicle’s AI to compensate for angle of light, shadow and other factors affecting the way such photons would be perceived in the absence of said object.” Kew paused to gauge whether or not his audience was keeping up with him.  
  
Keyop smiled and nodded. “Please continue,” he said.  
  
“Of course, visual stealth can easily be overcome by using infra-red sensors, so we also developed a rather sophisticated – if I do say so myself – heat-dumping system which involves small ceramic heat-sinks which can be ejected from the vehicle as required. These heat-sinks can also be deployed as counter-measures in the event of a heat-seeking projectile being used against the vehicle. The vehicle’s outer skin is radar-absorptive and its EM signature is negligible. We’ve also installed state-of-the-art signal jamming to prevent the most sensitive scanners from picking up the car. Even 7-Zark-7 can’t find the vehicle if it isn’t logged into the tracking system!”  
  
Mark walked across the tarmac to the track proper. “You’re telling me that even _Zark_ couldn’t ping the transponder?”  
  
“Not if the car’s gone dark, Commander,” Kew said. “Unfortunately, Zark transmitted a G-Force scramble alert during a testing session yesterday, and Jason responded without taking the car out of dark mode. The only saving grace we have is that Doctor Peel insisted on making the keys transmutation-proof, or we would have been on a very sticky wicket indeed!”  
  
“So,” Tiny surmised, “nobody took note of where the car was when Jason jumped out?”  
  
“We did,” Kew said, “but one of the features of dark mode is that the vehicle removes itself to avoid detection once the driver gets out and shuts the door.”  
  
“In short,” Princess said, “you guys did too good a job. You turned a car _so_ invisible that you couldn’t find it again!”  
  
“I’m afraid so,” Kew said. “Major Anderson, if you wouldn’t mind…”  
  
“Sure,” Jason said, and took a set of car keys out of his jeans pocket. He held up the remote and thumbed a key.  
  
There was a double-bleep and a silver Aston-Martin shimmered into being outside the main garage doors to the testing facility.  
  
“Make sure I get a copy of the report,” Anderson said as Jason handed the keys back to Jasper Kew. “And don’t lose the car again.”  
  



	25. Bradbury's Jar #285 - Coincidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two characters who wouldn't normally talk to one another get the opportunity to have a little chat.

The roaring stopped and Mala lay still, her head down, breathing through the fabric of her jacket to try and filter out the worst of the dust. Her ears were ringing and her head ached with a dull throb interspersed with the odd stabbing pain. Nausea rose in her stomach and she focussed on trying not to vomit.  
  
She could see nothing, and when she tried to move, her left foot caught on something. The foot wasn’t injured as far as she could tell – at least she felt no pain – but no matter which way she twisted, whatever it was that had her trapped, while it wasn’t crushing her, it wasn’t about to give way either.  
  
Breathing slowly became easier as the dust settled and Mala wondered if she dared attempt to find a light source.  
  
She blinked and squinted as a tiny light shone through the darkness and a male voice offered up a string of profanity.  
  
The next words she heard made her freeze, her stomach knotting.  
  
“G-Force from G-2, do you read?”  
  
Mala held her breath.  
  
“Center Neptune Control, this is G-2, do you read?”  
  
A wave of nausea rolled over her and Mala let out an involuntary moan.  
  
“Oh, shit,” the voice said and Mala heard movement. “Who’s there?”  
  
“You won’t like the answer,” Mala said. The light grew brighter, glared and shone directly in Mala’s eyes before being diverted away from her face.  
  
“Oh, no, not you,” Jason groaned. “Of all the people to get stuck in a collapsed building with, you’re definitely not in my top ten.”  
  
“I’m armed,” Mala warned.  
  
“And I’m not?” Jason retorted. The winged shadow moved closer. “You’re hurt,” he observed. “You take a hit to the head?”  
  
“I think so,” Mala said.  
  
“So, your reaction time’s probably slowed down, some,” Jason inferred, and before Mala could say anything, he grabbed her left arm, lifted it and pulled her gun from its shoulder holster. “Sorry,” he said. “That was impolite, but hey, you’d do the same.”  
  
“You have a point,” Mala conceded. “I’d probably have shot you by now.”  
  
“And here’s me thinking you were such a clever girl,” Jason said. He had placed the light source on a piece of rubble and sat down on the wreckage of something that might once have been furniture. He was favouring his left leg.  
  
“You didn’t escape unscathed, either,” Mala observed.  
  
“Go to the top of the class,” Jason said.  
  
“So, why haven’t you shot me?” Mala asked. The temperature seemed to be dropping and she pulled her jacket closed around her.  
  
“Insurance,” Jason said. “Both your people and my people are going to be looking for us. If your people get here first, guess who gets to be my bargaining chip and handy meat shield?”  
  
“Sensible,” Mala said. “I should have thought of that.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you did take a blow to the head.”  
  
Mala shivered. “I’m also stuck here. My foot’s trapped in something.”  
  
Jason picked up the light source and approached. Mala’s gaze followed the beam to where her foot appeared to be entangled in some kind of network of bent metal.  
  
“Chair legs, from the looks of it,” Jason said, “with a bunch of stuff weighing it all down. Lucky your lower leg wasn’t crushed. Look up.”  
  
Something in Jason’s tone made Mala obey and she squinted into the light. “What are you doing?” she demanded.  
  
“Unequal pupil response to light stimulus,” Jason said. “You’re concussed.”  
  
“I’m cold,” Mala complained.  
  
“Yeah, you’re probably going into shock. Sucks to be you.”  
  
Mala stared. “What?” she sneered. “Aren’t you going to hold me to keep me warm?”  
  
Jason released a little puff of breath in a snort. “Given that I don’t trust you as far as I can kick you,” he said, “I’d say the odds aren’t good. I haven’t shot you. This is as far as good manners go under the circumstances.”  
  
“Your Security Chief trusted me enough to ask me for dinner once,” she recalled.  
  
“Yeah,” Jason recalled, “and how do you think that would have gone if the Solar Express had actually made it to the station? To the nearest number of weapons?”  
  
“My clearance checked out,” Mala insisted. “I wouldn’t have gotten as far as the train if it hadn’t.”  
  
“Did you even notice that G-Force were on that train with you?” Jason asked. “It wasn’t a **coincidence** , you know.”  
  
“You used yourselves as bait?”  
  
“Yeah, you should’ve heard the Chief’s security detail go on about it… and on… and on… The ladies still bring it up from time to time. That and the Strecker thing. He’s _never_ going to live that down!”  
  
“He has a lot of women in senior positions,” Mala said, almost to herself.  
  
“People,” Jason corrected. “In my culture, it doesn’t matter what gender someone is as long as they do a good job. Galaxy Security has some very competent _people_ … who are hopefully going to be here soon,” he added.  
  
“Did you even get a signal out?” Mala asked.  
  
“I think so,” Jason said. “What about you? Do you have an emergency transmitter?”  
  
“Emergency transmitter?” Mala rolled her eyes, which triggered a giddy spell so she closed them again. “The way you people monitor the communications on this planet I might as well run up a white flag and surrender.”  
  
“And that’s not your style,” Jason said.  
  
“Nor yours,” Mala said.  
  
Jason drummed his fingers against the dusty wood of whatever it was he was sitting on. “There is one other thing I could try,” he said. He began tapping at his wristband with one finger.  
  
“What are you doing?” Mala asked.  
  
“Spy stuff,” Jason said.  
  
“Is that the technical term?” Mala jeered.  
  
“No, the technical term’s spy _shit_ but G-3 says I shouldn’t swear in public or company. Or something. She gets that disapproving face and folds her arms… Scary.”  
  
“I suppose you think you’re funny,” Mala said.  
  
“In the first place, have you _seen_ the disapproving face? In the second, I think I’m sarcastic,” Jason said. “I’m assured on a regular basis that it’s one of the lowest forms of wit.” The wristband chirped and Jason got to his feet. He moved away, taking the light source with him. Mala could just make out one side of a conversation. “Hey, it’s me. Are you okay?” The response was audible to Mala’s ears only as a low electronically-distorted buzz. “Well we seem to have a decent signal there,” Jason said. “To answer your question, I appear to be in a hole in the ground, pretty much where you left me… I know, figure of speech. Hey, you’ll never guess who I’m sharing the Pit of Doom with… Mala.” There was a pause while the buzz rose in pitch and volume. “Yes, that Mala, and y’know the Spectrans are probably going to be looking for her, so… any time you can arrange an extraction… Okay. See you guys soon. The sooner the better, if you know what I mean.”  
  
Mala saw the beam of light returning as Jason carried the flashlight back to where she was lying.  
  
“Your people can’t trace you from your signal?” Mala asked.  
  
“Any signal can be traced,” Jason said.  
  
“In other words…”  
  
“No comment.”  
  
Mala decided to try a different tack. “You could try to get me out of here.”  
  
“Nah,” Jason said. “I think I’ll leave you right where you are. You get a snake in a bag, you don’t open the bag.”  
  
“How dare you speak to me that way!” Mala fumed. “I am the most powerful woman on all Spectra!”  
  
“Liberty, fraternity, equality, sweetheart,” Jason retorted.  
  
“You don’t seriously believe in that!” Mala huffed. “You could have all the power of Galaxy Security at your fingertips if you chose to take it!”  
  
“Power?” Jason snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. Power’s a joke.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“You think you want to rule the Galaxy? Fine. Let’s say for the sake of argument that you manage to conquer the Federation and rule the Galaxy. What are you going to do with it? How are you going to govern it? Have you noticed how freakin’ _big_ it is? Conquering the Galaxy’s one thing, _keeping it running_ , now that’s something else. Power isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, because you don’t just get power, you get the whole package. With great power, comes… comes… y’know, a whole lot of complicated stuff including a shit-storm of paperwork and frankly I’d just as soon go home and take up stamp-collecting... maybe write my memoirs. There’d be a couple of really unflattering paragraphs about you in them, by the way.”  
  
“You seek to provoke me,” Mala said.  
  
“Yeah, I’m really annoying,” Jason said. “Just ask your brother.”  
  
“The most annoying thing about you,” Mala said, “is how difficult you are to kill.”  
  
“Thanks,” Jason said. “I’ll pass that on to the rest of the team. They’ll be really pleased to get some positive feedback.”  
  
“You have been lucky!” Mala spat.  
  
“To an extent, maybe,” Jason said. “I suppose there’s an element of luck, but there’s also good management. We learn fast in Galaxy Security.”  
  
“You value your people,” Mala said.  
  
“Yeah,” Jason said. “It’s one of the big differences between you and us. You use people up and spit ‘em out when you’re done.”  
  
“You’re telling me there’s no such thing as ‘acceptable losses’ in the ISO? Don’t make me laugh.”  
  
“We don’t use people as cannon fodder,” Jason said. “We don’t kidnap people’s parents to coerce them into working for us, f’rinstance. We don’t turn people into cyborgs against their will. And we don’t plant neural bombs in the heads of young women to force their loyalty!”  
  
“Maybe you should give it a try,” Mala suggested. “I seem to recall you’ve had problems with defectors.”  
  
“Had. Past tense. We’ve cleaned house.”  
  
“Have you, now?”  
  
“How’s your intelligence gathering been lately, Mala? Not as good as it once was, according to the reports I’ve seen.”  
  
“Good enough,” Mala said.  
  
“That’s the problem with your kind of power,” Jason said. “You have to go to extreme lengths to hold on to it. You tighten your grip until your empire bleeds, and one day… well, we have a saying: _those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it_.”  
  
“My brother and I are fighting to save our people. You just want to go home and put your feet up!”  
  
“That’s right. I just want this war over and done with! We all just want to go home – and some of us don’t even know where _home_ is any more, thanks to you.”  
  
“ _Our_ home will be Earth,” Mala said.  
  
“That’s one thing I don’t get with you. What’s with the whole _Earth_ thing, anyway? There aren’t other habitable worlds out there? Like you couldn’t go terraform something? Why keep attacking a planet that’s so well defended? Why spend money, resources and _lives_ on something you’ll only have to fight to hold on to even if you get it? I honestly don’t understand that.”  
  
“How could you understand it?” Mala said, her tone dripping contempt. “Our culture and our religion demand that we be the conquerors of Earth.”  
  
“Religion, huh?” Jason shook his head. “Well, there goes logic. Suddenly my issues with Catholicism don’t seem so bad. I mean, _my_ religion says I’m supposed to go to church on Sundays and confess my sins from time to time. _Yours_ says you have to go conquer a planet and kill tens of thousands of people. That’s seriously messed up.”  
  
“You _dare_ –!”  
  
“I dare. History’s riddled with stupid, senseless wars carried out in the name of religion. This one’s just the latest in a long and tragic list.”  
  
Mala jerked her foot angrily against its restraints, but the movement made her dizzy again and she slumped helplessly against the rubble where she lay.  
  
Jason raised his wrist and spoke into the communicator. “You know, guys, you can join this little party any time you like.”  
  
There was a tinny response that might have been something along the lines of, “ _I’m working on it._ ”  
  
“My people will find me,” Mala said.  
  
“Question is: do they want to?” Jason asked.  
  
“If they do not, there will be consequences,” Mala said.  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“They will be punished,” Mala said. “Privileges will be revoked for the lower ranks. Senior officers will be demoted. Commanders… _reassigned_.”  
  
“And just what exactly does ‘significant pause, reassigned’ mean?” Jason asked.  
  
“Demotion and exile to the colonies,” Mala said.  
  
“Sounds crowded,” Jason remarked. “Do they have to stand a line and take a number?”  
  
Jason’s palm unit chirped and he walked away again, picking his way through the rubble with his flashlight jerking and bobbing with the movement, leaving Mala in the gloom. Once again, she could only hear one side of the conversation, which went along the lines of, “Yes,” and, “No,” with very little elaboration. Galaxy Security was closing in, and with them the possibility – no, the _probability_ – of capture. Surely her own team was searching for her?  
  
Slowly, Mala became aware of a subtle vibration in the floor. Someone was operating machinery, but was it a Spectran recovery team or the wretched G-Force?  
  
Dust drifted down from the ceiling and Mala heard Jason’s voice raised in concern. Perhaps it _was_ the Spectrans Mala could sense. She smiled to herself. G-2 would not be so insolent once she had him in chains.  
  
The vibrations seemed to be coming from everywhere. More dust was falling from the ceiling. The light was growing brighter, signalling G-2’s return. Mala ducked her head into the crook of one arm to protect her face. She struggled into a sitting position and tried to peer through the gloom, frantic for any sign of rescue. There was a knife in her boot. If she could reach it, she might have a chance at disarming her foe. She looked up at him and found herself staring down the barrel of a gun.  
  
“I think we’re just about at the limit of this little ‘frenemies’ routine,” Jason said. The light swung upward as he raised his communicator to speak into it. The sound of machinery drew closer and and Jason raised his voice to be heard: “Sounds like you’re neck and neck with our Spectra friends,” he said. “Tell G-4 to step on the gas and be prepared to come in hot. Oh, and try not to kill me. That’d just be embarrassing for everyone.”  
  
Mala saw only the shadowy muzzle of the gun. The voice at the other end of the communicator channel may have said something that sounded like, “ _Guess which finger I’m holding up right now?_ ”  
  
The sound of machinery grew louder and a section of wall began to crumble.  
  
On the opposite side of the chamber, another section broke open.  
  
“You’re clear and you’ll have company!” Jason said into his communicator before he closed the channel.  
  
Fresh light flooded the chamber and two drills, one large and one smaller, burst through in clouds of dust. To Mala’s left, Spectran troops ventured cautiously forward while to her right, three members of G-Force ran through the gap created by the little G-4 vehicle, poised to fight.  
  
The Spectrans pointed their guns at G-Force, who stood with their weapons at the ready. Jason spoke up, his gun trained on Mala’s head.  
  
“Drop your weapons,” he told the Spectrans. “Drop them or she dies.”  
  
“And you will not live one second longer,” Mala pointed out. “Do this and we both die.”  
  
“So…” Jason adjusted his weight on his right leg. “What we have here is what we Earthlings call a stand-off. How about we all agree not to kill each other today, retrieve our people and leave?”  
  
“Do I get my gun back?” Mala asked.  
  
“Hell, no,” Jason said.  
  
Mala squinted through the dust at her men. “Who is in charge?” she demanded.  
  
“Captain Hvitz, ma’am!” one of the men said, stepping forward and saluting. “Hail Spectra!”  
  
“Do as he says,” she said. “Get me out of this and we leave!”  
  
“Yes, ma’am!”  
  
A squad of Galaxy Security agents in dark blue combat gear took up position to the rear of G-Force, aiming their weapons at the Spectrans, who continued aiming back with the exception of the four men assigned to freeing Mala from the rubble that trapped her.  
  
G-2 began making his way toward the Galaxy Security position. “So long, Mala,” he said. “I won’t say it hasn’t been fun… Oh, what the hell. It hasn’t been fun!”  
  
“The next time I see you,” Mala promised, “I will kill you.”  
  
“Not if I see you first,” Jason said, and he was gone.  
  
“Hurry up!” Mala snapped at her rescuers. As her men freed her, the Galaxy Security troops withdrew, one by one, until only G-Force were left.  
  
“Just remember,” the G-Force Commander said, “you _won’t_ see me first.”  
  
The G-Force members disappeared in a cloud of dust and swirling capes.  
  
“Hurry!” Mala urged. “This amnesty will only last for as long as it takes for G-Force to get their people to safety. Maybe not even that long!” She was bundled into the cab of the driller and sank into a seat as the engine roared into life.  
  
“We’ll take her as deep as we can,” Hvitz promised. “We’ll do our best to evade their scanners.”  
  
  
  
The G-Force team, back in their civilian uniforms, were waiting in Security Chief Anderson’s office. Princess, Tiny and Keyop sat on one of the sofas while Mark paced up and down in front of the big picture window.  
  
The door opened to admit Chief Anderson and Jason, who was back in his civilian uniform and walking with a slight limp. His left ankle had been strapped with a bandage.  
  
“Just a sprain,” Jason said.  
  
“And enough bruising to make your sorry hide look like an art installation,” Anderson added, frowning.  
  
“Aw, Chief,” Jason said, “I didn’t know you cared!”  
  
“Yeah, right,” Anderson snarled, and made his way to his desk.  
  
“Cut it out, Jason,” Mark said, sounding weary. “Chief, has there been any word on our Spectra friends? Or fiends, as the case may be?”  
  
“Everyone’s a comedian,” Anderson muttered under his breath. “No, Commander,” he said, “but the main thing is that we got Jason back in one piece and he’ll be fine after some rest and some protein supplements. The bad news is that the chocolate-flavoured variety didn’t come in with the last delivery and all we have to hand is banana.”  
  
Jason’s face fell. “You’re kidding, right?”  
  
“I’m afraid not,” Anderson said grimly, “so I suggest you all head to Tiny’s shack and barbecue as many steaks as you can handle. You’d better get going if you want to meet the delivery van. Dismissed.”  
  
“Now there’s an order I’m happy to obey!” Tiny declared.  
  
“Just as long as there’s no surf with my turf,” Jason cautioned.  
  
“Quit your griping and move,” Mark said, “or I’ll make you drink that banana-flavoured protein supplement.”  
  
“You can _try!_ ” Jason said as the team shuffled out of the office. He let the others precede him through the door, then paused and turned back toward Anderson. “Thanks,” he said.  
  
“Just don’t make a habit of it,” Anderson warned.  
  
“Trust me,” Jason said, “I’ve spent all the quality time I need with Mala. She’s a card-carrying member of the psycho club. Next time I see her, I’m taking her down.”  



	26. Bradbury's Jar #286 - Irreplaceable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason happens upon a worrisome scene.

Jason got out of his car, swung the door closed and performed a quick visual sweep of the area.  
  
Parked in the shade of Mark’s shack were Princess’ bike and Tiny’s van. There was no sound coming from the shack, however, and the front door was ajar, as though it had been pushed closed with a hasty shove and failed to latch.  
  
Jason approached. He opened the door and peered inside.  
  
“Holy…” he breathed. The shack looked as though it had been thoroughly ransacked: Mark didn’t have a lot of storage space in the small building (which was a lot sturdier and high-tech on the inside than it looked on the outside), but what cupboards and drawers there were now hung open, their contents strewed haphazardly on every available surface.  
  
Cautiously, Jason ventured inside, senses alert. He stepped over and around papers, folders, boxes and even sofa cushions to make his way into the kitchen.  
  
The kitchen, at least, wasn’t in quite the same state of uproar as the living room, but then Mark’s kitchen was never a model of tidiness to begin with.  
  
Mark’s bedroom was a mess. The bed had been made, but a couple of drawers had been pulled out of the chest and dumped on the bed, apparently to make searching them easier.  
  
Jason frowned and picked his way through the mess to the back door.  
  
A stray gust of breeze carried the scent of mulch and plant matter from Old Man Watanabe’s exotic plant nursery next door as well as a quick drift of familiar voices. Jason broke into a jog, heading for the hangar.  
  
The hangar door was wide open and Mark’s plane was on the hardstand, her tie-down ropes trailing, rudder lock still in place, both doors wide open.  
  
Keyop’s face appeared above the dash and the boy waved.  
  
Jason returned the gesture and continued on into the hangar.  
  
As with many hangars, one corner was devoted to a small office area, which looked as though a very compact and highly specific tornado had struck.  
  
“What’s going on?” Jason asked.  
  
Tiny and Princess glanced at Jason, shrugged and turned helpless gazes toward the ceiling.  
  
Mark backed out of a steel utility cupboard, a triumphant grin on his face. One hand held aloft a dark blue vinyl portfolio. “Found it!” he declared.  
  
“Guys?” Jason tried again. “What happened? The shack looks like a bomb hit it! This place doesn’t look much better.”  
  
“Oh.” Mark ran the fingers of his left hand through his hair and grinned sheepishly. “I couldn’t find my lucky map folder.”  
  
Jason simply stared at his commanding officer, who stood looking around at the mess as though seeing it for the first time.  
  
Princess shrugged again.  
  
“Hey,” Tiny said, hastening to Mark’s defence, “you don’t go flying without your lucky map folder. Some things are **irreplaceable**!”  



	27. Bradbury’s Jar #287 - Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princess is watching that playhouse theatre show again.

 

“ _If we should fail?_ ” the Scottish noble speculated.  
  
” _We fail!_ ” his wife retorted. “ _But screw your **courage** to the sticking-place  
And we’ll not fail. When Duncan is asleep–_ ”  
  
“Are you watching that playhouse theatre thing again?” Jason asked.  
  
“Shhh!” Princess hissed.  
  
“ _–His two chamberlains  
Will I with wine and wassail so convince  
__That memory, the warder of the brain,”_  
  
“You are, aren’t you?” Jason said. “I can tell.”  
  
Princess picked up the remote and pressed ‘PAUSE.’ “So what if I am? It’s Shakespeare.”  
  
“I know it’s Shakespeare,” Jason said. He put his motoring magazine down and considered the frozen figures of Lord and Lady Macbeth on the G-Force ready room’s large wall-mounted screen. “One thing I could never figure out about this play…”  
  
“What’s that?” Princess asked, taking advantage of the pause in the programme to get up and head toward the refrigerator. “You want some juice?”  
  
“Thanks,” Jason said. “I could never figure out exactly where the sticking-place is, or how you screw courage to it.”  
  
Princess opened her mouth to chastise Jason for being foolish when her brain caught up with her. “You know,” she said, “that actually makes a weird kind of sense. D’you think maybe it’s something Elizabethan? I mean, did people go around knowing what the sticking-place was and where it was located… Darn it, Jason, now you’re making me sound like you!”  
  
“Heh.” Jason grinned. “My work here is done.”  


 

 

 

 

 

 

NOTE _: There is no definitive answer as to where the sticking-place is, but apparently Will Shakespeare knew. It is believed that he made the term up since the first known written instance of the use of 'sticking-place' is in The Scottish Play. Your humble storyteller is aware of two theories: one that the sticking-place refers to a tuning peg on a musical instrument being turned until the string is in tune; the second is that the sticking-place is the mark to which an archer would wind back the string on a crossbow. Given the context, the author is inclined to go for the latter, but it would seem that the Bard took the secret to his grave._


	28. Bradbury's Jar #288 - Empathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It starts with an M.

_I pinched this from Sir Terry Pratchett.  
_  
  
  
  
Keyop was bored.  
  
There was nothing on the Ready Room’s big screen 3V that he wanted to watch.  
  
He had read all the books he cared to read.  
  
The only magazine he was remotely interested ( _Stock Car Monthly_ ) was currently in Jason’s possession and likely to remain so for quite some time.  
  
Mark and Princess were off in a meeting with Chief Anderson, the Director Science Division and the Director Special Projects to discuss the possible implementation of the near-indestructible urgosium alloy into G-Force weapons (big deal! Once there was something to actually try out, it might start to get interesting) and Tiny was making sandwiches, which might be interesting once said sandwiches were ready to be eaten. There appeared to be quite a lot of L and T in the BLT Tiny was assembling, which didn’t hold a lot of appeal. Keyop liked BACON, Lettuce and Tomato sandwiches, not bacon LETTUCE and TOMATO sandwiches. If Tiny was going to go on a health kick, Keyop might have to try and talk him out of it.  
  
Keyop flopped back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling.  
  
It was all so BORING!  
  
Keyop had even read and signed off on all his bulletins, which would have made Princess stare and possibly press a hand against his forehead to see if he had a fever, had she known. Keyop had been careful not to tell her.  
  
“I’m bored,” Keyop said.  
  
“Why’n’tcha do the crossword?” Jason mumbled around a mouthful of white chocolate chip and cranberry cookie. The cookies were pretty good, and Keyop had only been allowed to have three of them. Even with the restriction, the sugar rush had Keyop’s mind running in circles like a hamster on speed.  
  
“Ugh!” Keyop closed his eyes, then opened them again. Actually, maybe the crossword wasn’t such a bad idea.  
  
He clambered off the sofa, retrieved the newspaper and a pencil, then lay on his belly along the length of the couch, the paper open at the puzzle page, pondering the clues.  
  
Today’s theme was ‘Mind Games.’  
  
“ _One of the fathers of modern psychology_ ,” Keyop read aloud. Four empty squares. Okay, it wasn’t Freud…  
  
“Jung,” Jason said without looking up from his magazine.  
  
“Yoong?” Keyop echoed.  
  
“That’s what I said,” Jason said.  
  
“Oh! You mean Jung!”  
  
“Whatevs,” Jason said.  
  
Keyop carefully pencilled the letters J, U, N and G into the crossword.  
  
The next answer was EGO, followed by PSYCHE and BRAINWASH. When Keyop solved eleven down, which was SOCIOPATH, he felt rather pleased with himself.  
  
“ _The capacity to understand what someone else is feeling_ ,” Keyop read out.  
  
“Oh, I know that one!” Tiny said, waving one hand in circles. “Uh… one o’ those ‘pathy’ words. Starts with an ‘M.’”  
  
“An M?” Keyop frowned. He considered the crossword grid. Seven letters, and there was a T and Y right where they ought to be if the word ended in ‘pathy,’ but an M?”  
  
Keyop pencilled in the P, A and H to make ‘PATHY,’ then looked at the beginning of the word.   
  
MaPATHY? No.  
  
MePATHY? No.  
  
MiPATHY?  
  
Keyop sighed.  
  
Jason put his magazine down. “Starts with an ‘M’?” he challenged.  
  
“Yeah,” Tiny said. “M-PATHY.”  
  
Jason let his breath out and closed his eyes. “Keyop?” he said.  
  
“Yeah?” Keyop prompted.  
  
“E, M, P, A, T, H, Y,” Jason said. “ _Empathy_.” He picked up the now-empty paper bag that had contained the cookies, balled it up and threw it at Tiny. “Starts with an ‘M’!” he snorted.  



	29. Bradbury's Jar #289 - Notification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was good news and bad news for Mary Wade.

Mary was never entirely sure where she went wrong with Donald.  
  
He’d been what was euphemistically referred to as ‘an autumn child,’ conceived well into peri-menopause when Mary was quite certain her childbearing days were over.  
  
It had been ironic, really, considering all the time she and George had tried and tried when they were younger, only to give up and resign themselves to growing old alone.  
  
More irony – Mary was too kind a person to think of it as being the caprices of a cruel and uncaring universe – had struck when George had been felled with a massive subarachnoid haemorrhage when Donald was four. Of all the things it could have been, mercifully quick wasn’t one of them. George lingered on life support for almost a week before finally succumbing, leaving his wife and young son with a massive hospital bill.  
  
Mary went back to teaching. George’s brother Ethan and his wife Rosemary helped out with things where they could. Their daughter Michaela was just over a year older than Donald and was enrolled in a gifted programme at an ISO military school. Ethan and Rosie managed to get Donald in on a scholarship and paid the balance of his tuition fees, allowing Mary to focus on keeping the two of them fed, clothed and housed.  
  
  
  
The day David Anderson visited had been a proud one. Donald had been identified through testing as being eligible for a special programme called G-Force. It was a chance for the boy to excel and to serve the Federation. Mary had been flattered and pleased, and signed the paperwork without asking very many questions at all.  
  
The financial pressure was eased and Mary no longer felt quite so beholden to Ethan and Rosie. Donald spent term time away from home and came home for vacations and holidays. He grew tall, strong, intelligent… and arrogant.  
  
Mary told herself it was a phase. All young men have to wrestle personal demons as they grow up, after all.  
  
Donald made no secret of his disdain for his mother’s chosen profession or her relative lack of intellectual stature. Mary couldn’t really argue with her brilliant son – after all, next to him, she really did feel like a dullard.  
  
Counsellors from the G-Force Project asked questions and frowned thoughtfully. “It’s just a phase,” Mary said, over and over again.  
  
  
  
The day David Anderson visited had shaken Mary to the core. Donald was ill, he said. He wouldn’t be able to continue with the G-Force Project.  
  
Thinking of what had happened with George, Mary had been worried about the medical costs. Dr Anderson assured her that Galaxy Security would take care of everything and that she’d be able to see her son very soon.  
  
When she visited, Donald refused to speak with her. He turned his head away and stared sulkily out the window. The only words he spoke were the ones she was so used to hearing from him: “You wouldn’t understand.” Now, though, instead of being spoken with haughty disdain, they were uttered with bitterness and despair.  
  
“I’ll always love you no matter what, Donnie,” Mary had said, trying to soothe him. “You’ll get better and everything will be all right. You’ll see.”  
  
Donald had closed his eyes and rung the nurse call bell. The nurse had gently ushered Mary Wade from the room and sent her home.  
  
  
  
The day Donald came home was a proud one. Ethan, Rosemary and Michaela had all been there with Mary to welcome him home. Fully recovered and having lost none of his intellectual brilliance, he informed his family that he wouldn't be staying. He had a job working as a senior researcher with Dr Umzabe, Galaxy Security’s Director Science Division. He had a secure apartment paid for by the ISO, a car and a good salary. He didn’t need to live at home with his mother.  
  
Michaela had made a scene. She had said such dreadful things, calling Donald an ungrateful wretch and a bad son until Mary had been forced to ask her to leave. Ethan and Rosemary had shaken their heads sadly and left with their daughter.  
  
Mary had been shocked and upset at Michaela’s outburst. She’s always thought that her niece was a nice girl – after all, she had come home especially for Donald’s welcome-home party from her job out in the colonies.  
  
“A soft-hearted fool,” Donald had said of his cousin. “She could be making a small fortune as a neurosurgeon in private practice! She’s wasting her talents with _Médecins Sans Frontières_!”  
  
Mary supposed that Donald had to be right. He usually was, after all.  
  
  
  
The day young Jason Anderson knocked Mary Wade down with his car, it was a mixed sort of a day. Mary had sustained a couple of bruises, nothing more, but Jason looked worse. He seemed haunted, his face pale and drawn. He’d seen her home and ensured she was settled before he left again. It had been nice to see one of Donald’s friends.  
  
  
  
The day David Anderson visited, it was the worst day.  
  
Donald was in custody.  
  
Donald was a traitor.  
  
Mary shook her head in denial. “No,” she whimpered over and over. “Not my Donnie. He’d never do that!”  
  
Part of Mary Wade – that part that spoke sometimes with a voice very much like Donald’s – sneered and said, yes, Donald would do that. Donald’s ego would have allowed him to be drawn in and manipulated. Donald might have been brilliant, but he’d never been any good at understanding people. He wouldn’t have realised until it was too late.  
  
Anderson and his security detail waited awkwardly while Mary sobbed and sniffled.  
  
When the tears finally started to subside, Mary asked, “Will I be able to see him?”  
  
“Perhaps,” Anderson said, his expression glacial. “It depends on him. Family visits are a privilege he’ll have to earn. In the event that you can visit, I’ll send **notification**.”  
  
“I notice you didn’t say, ‘in the event he wants to see you,’” Mary said, the bitterness darting past her personal filters in a rare flash of resentment.  
  
“I’m sure he’ll want to see you, Mary,” Anderson said, finally relenting enough to show a glimmer of compassion. “You’re all he’s got.”  
  
“He’s all _I’ve_ got,” Mary said.  
  
“He has the better part of the bargain then,” Anderson said, and left.  



	30. Bradbury's Jar #290 - Glitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those product safety recalls are usually just a storm in a teacup, right?

“Meeting starts at oh-nine-hundred _sharp_ , people,” Mark said.  
  
“I’ll be there, Commander,” Princess said, and turned back to the conversation she was having with her friend Lieutenant Francine Patrick, who was coming off shift from Security Chief Anderson’s security detail. “I’ve got a yoga class on Friday,” she said, “but how about Thursday?”  
  
Mark opened the door to the executive kitchen, intent on making himself a cup of hot chocolate.  
  
The first thing he noticed was the absence of the smell.  
  
Normally, when he entered the executive kitchen at this time of day, the air was redolent with the rich aroma of freshly-ground and brewed coffee.  
  
Today, though, there was only the usual smell of processed, climate-controlled air and the odour of yesterday’s banana peels forming a somewhat disconcerting miasma above the garbage bin.  
  
Jason was standing in front of the coffee machine, hands on hips, glaring at a notice which had been stuck to the splashback:

 

**PRODUCT SAFETY RECALL:**   
**QTL NEBULA INSPRESSO COFFEE MACHINE**

  
There were several paragraphs of smaller print underneath.  
  
“Problem?” Mark asked.  
  
“Some kind of software glitch in the coffee machine,” Jason said.  
  
“A software glitch?” March echoed. “Seriously?”  
  
“Shyeah!” Jason folded his arms. “I mean, come on, it’s a coffee machine. How bad can it be?”  
  
“Uh,” Mark ventured cautiously, “you remember what happened the time we tried to get it to boil water for tea?”  
  
“Pfft!” Jason waved a dismissive hand in Mark’s direction. “Whatever doesn’t kill me only pisses me off.”  
  
“Um…” Mark edged toward the door. “Jase, have you read that notice all the way through?”  
  
“These things are usually nothing!” Jason said. “It’s probably a loose bolt or a coupla dud pixels in the display!”  
  
“Look,” Mark reasoned, “we can send out for something.”  
  
Jason turned and glowered at his commanding officer. “We _needs_ our coffee, Precious!”  
  
“That’s it,” Mark said. “I’m out of here!”  
  
  
  
Ten minutes later, as the alarms sounded and staff were being herded toward the fire escapes, Mark put down the extinguisher and coughed. He tore the safety notice from the splashback, made his way through the smoke, stepped out into the corridor and found Jason standing shamefacedly nearby.  
  
“You gonna turn me in?” Jason muttered.  
  
“No,” Mark said, “but you know Anderson only has to view Zark’s surveillance feed of the kitchen area and he’s got you cold.”  
  
Jason sighed the sigh of a condemned man. “I could really use a cup of coffee,” he said.  
  
Mark put the empty fire extinguisher down and straightened out the product recall notice. “Ahem! It says here that, ‘a software glitch may cause the machine to overheat under certain circumstances.’ It also says, ‘If the defect occurs while the machine is in use, it may damage countertops, leak, catch fire or explode!’”  
  
Jason’s eyebrows travelled upward. “Really?”  
  
“Didn’t you read it?” Mark demanded.  
  
“Uh…” Jason’s gaze slid away to the left. “Maybe… not… _all_ the way through.”  
  
Mark shook his head. “And people ask me why I prefer tea!”  



	31. Bradbury's Jar #291 - Ensemble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of a multi-part response.

**The Naked Wednesday**  
  
_“Help!”_ the message read. _“I’m trapped in a bad episode of ‘Star Trek’!”_  
  
“What in the world is _that_ supposed to mean?” Jason wondered aloud.  
  
“Whatever it is, it’s probably not good news for someone,” Keyop said.  
  
“Probably means the Chief’s brain’s working so hard it’s overheating,” Tiny theorised.  
  
“At least that’s usually bad news for Spectra,” Jason said with a shrug. “Still, I have no idea what he’s actually talking about.”  


  
  
“I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lieutenant Colonel Jones complained as she climbed the fire escape stairs behind Chief Anderson, who was taking them two at a time. Jones, whose shorter stature meant she had to take the stairs one at a time but faster, had a high enough fitness level that she was able to gripe while effectively running up the stairs.  
  
Anderson and Jones’ footfalls echoed in the stairwell, accompanied by thumping and scraping sounds from several floors below.  
  
“I was referring,” Anderson said without breaking stride, “to that episode of Star Trek where everyone loses their inhibitions and starts acting on their deepest desires – y’know, like all the filters are turned off.”  
  
“Oh,” said Jones, who had never watched Star Trek. “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”  
  
“Because my filters are all turned off and that was the first thing that sprang to mind,” Anderson reasoned. “Get used to it.”  
  
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not,” Jones retorted.  
  
“Anyway,” Anderson said, reaching the landing, where he paused and turned back toward Jones, “why aren’t you affected?”  
  
“I _am_ affected,” Jones said. “What you see is what you get.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“Keep going like this,” Jones warned, “and you’ll get to see – and hear – exactly what I’m like unfiltered. Move your arse up those stairs or I’ll bloody well carry you!”  
  
Anderson complied. “Now _that’s_ more like it,” he said.  
  
“So help me, David Anderson,” Jones muttered. “One of these days…”  
  
“But this _is_ one of these days,” Anderson pointed out. “This is _the_ day! All the filters are off!”  
  
“Stop being so bloody logical!” Jones snarled. “I’m trying to keep a lid on things back here! Honestly! You’re the single most annoying person I’ve ever met in my life, and I’ve met a lot of annoying people in my line of work!”  
  
The thumping and scraping noises from below had ceased, to be replaced by running footfalls and the sounds of mild exertion, as though someone was carrying out gymnastic manoeuvres.  
  
The sounds were getting closer.  
  
Anderson and Jones drew back against the wall as Mark used the handrail to vault upward and touched down on the landing above, followed about a second later by Princess. Both G-Force members were in full battle gear.  
  
“Ninth floor’s secure, Chief,” Mark reported. “Nobody’s leaving in a hurry. Zark says security’s surrounded the building. Shay’s waiting for a chopper so she can meet us on the roof.”  
  
“Of course she is,” Anderson said. “Just as long as she brings the stuff I need.”  
  
“She said something about you turning yourself into a fly?”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anderson said. “We’re heading for the roof. Turning yourself into a fly only happens in the _basement_.”  
  
“Right,” Mark deadpanned. “What was I thinking?”  


  
  
What Mark had been thinking when he got up that morning was that he was in for a boring day. He and Princess were to accompany Chief Anderson to a press conference where the ISO was basically going to have a bragging session about the defeat and capture of the notorious space pirate Captain Doom. Given Jason’s outburst at the time Doom had been captured, Anderson had felt it best for Jason to sit the press conference out and assigned the team’s gunner to conducting target practice aboard the Phoenix with Tiny and Keyop.  
  
Mark had brushed his teeth, flossed and called Princess to make transport arrangements. Both the G-1 and the G-3 vehicles were safely docked aboard the command ship, so Mark had met Princess and Keyop at their apartment with his car. He’d dropped Keyop off at ISO Seahorse Base so that the youngest member of G-Force could meet up with the rest of the team to board the Phoenix while Mark and Princess headed for the ISO Tower.  
  
Mark had been surprised to see Anderson sporting a blue Galaxy Security day uniform. Lieutenant Colonel Jones was looking extremely smug, which had led Princess to speculate that some pressure may have been applied from the direction of Anderson’s liaison officer. Wisely, neither Mark nor Princess said anything to Anderson. Mark had distinctly seen Colonel Jones wink at Captain Maxwell, who was Officer of the Watch, and Maxwell had winked back. Lieutenant Falcone, the second officer on duty, had simply smiled a very small smile.  
  
While waiting in the lobby for Anderson to wrap up whatever Chief of Staff stuff he was doing, Princess had approached the two security officers with Mark in tow.  
  
“Okay,” she said, “what was all that about?”  
  
It was Falcone who answered. “I bet Ray Bairstow twenty bucks that Al could get the Chief to wear a uniform for the press conference. Got good odds, too.”  
  
“And you?” Princess asked Maxwell.  
  
“Just admiring the scenery,” Maxwell said. “You have to admit, he looks good in blues.”  
  
Princess had chuckled in response.  
  
Mark shrugged. “I suppose it ought to give an impression of solidarity,” he said. He’d heard a rumour that there was a conspiracy afoot to consign the suit to the nearest incinerator, but as yet, Mark wasn’t privy to that level of machination. He was quite sure someone would say something if his assistance was needed. He was also sure that he’d help out if asked. The grey suit was just embarrassing, really. Mark and Jason had made a pact that if ever Anderson put elbow patches on the jacket, they’d wrest it away from him themselves and subject it to the full brunt of the fiery Phoenix effect.  
  
The press conference had been something of a panel discussion. The ISO Council, made up of the Chiefs of Staff of the five services, were lined up (like ducks, Mark thought before banishing the idea as unbecoming) at a long table along with their liaison officers and the Director ISO Public Relations, the latter hovering in the background just in case anyone did anything crazy, like tell the unvarnished truth of something. (Again, Mark dismissed the thought as being somewhat rebellious.)  
  
Chief Anderson was close to the centre of the table along with Space Admiral Aida Nagarajan to his right. At Anderson’s left sat Air Marshall Tobias Lynch, then Field Marshall Yusef Al-Farouk, while Admiral Ryuu Sasaki sat at the far right next to Nagarajan. Interspersed between the Chiefs of Staff were their liaison officers, duly armed with official statements and expressions of long-suffering forbearance. Mark had to admit, having the Chief of Galaxy Security turn out in uniform like the rest of his peers did give a better impression than Anderson’s workaday mismatched grey suit.   
  
Admiral Sasaki had stood, welcomed the representatives of the Fourth estate and made the introductions. He spoke for several minutes, providing a brief overview before handing over to Security Chief Anderson, who began by presenting some background information.  
  
Mark, standing at ease behind Anderson and Jones with Princess to his left, felt his eyes start to glaze over. He managed not to wince as Anderson described Captain Doom’s attack on the big airshow in 2161 where he’d ended up in the drink and The Phoenix’s rudder had been sliced off by Doom’s urgosium alloy whip.  
  
Part of a deal negotiated between the Federation and Planet Urgos was that the Urgosians had agreed not to release information about the true identity of Captain Doom, on pain of significant reductions in aid. In return for the Urgosians’ silence and the cessation of space piracy, the Federation had committed to providing interplanetary aid to support Urgos’ transition from rogue world to Fine Upstanding Galactic Citizen.  
  
Mark was relieved that he – and more to the point, Jason and the Chief – wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout from that particular grain of truth.  
  
Mark was inclined to sigh but discipline kept him from doing so.   
  
Anderson’s briefing droned on and Mark tuned out.  
  
Mark’s wristband emitted a brief vibration. He tensed.  
  
The buzzing continued in a staccato pattern: G-Force code.  
  
Mark didn’t turn to look at Princess. She was standing at ease next to him, hands behind her back, weight balanced perfectly, eyes front. She was clearly tapping at her wristband, however, even if the movement of her hands wasn’t visible from the front.  
  
Mark focussed on the pattern of buzzes against his carpals.  
  
_YOUR EYES ARE GLAZING OVER._  
  
Mark’s finger tapped at the face of his wristband.  
  
_THANKS BUT HOW COULD YOU TELL._  
  
The wristband vibrated briefly.  
  
_I KNOW YOU COMMANDER.  
  
_ There was really no answer to that, and Princess was right: his eyes _had_ been glazing over. He scanned the room: there were two security officers standing over by the door; about fifty or so journalists all managing to look as though their eyes weren’t glazing over – wait, there was one young reporter who looked like he was trying not to fall asleep, but the rest of them all appeared to be paying attention, holding voice recorders and busily making notes. There were more security officers ranged around the room and five more, including Josh Maxwell, lined up with himself and Princess, all standing at ease in a line.  
  
Mark wondered what the collective noun was for security officers. For journalists it was ‘scoop,’ which made sense. As for the Chiefs of Staff… _Let’s see… ‘array’? No. ‘ **Ensemble** ’ maybe? No, that’s actors. No, it’s a glitter of generals, that was it. I guess all those hours playing Trivial Pursuit with Jason may not have been in vain after all. What would fit for security officers? A boast of soldiers? Nah… An execution of officers? Don’t think they’d like that one. Oh, I know! A _custodia _of watchmen. That’d do it, sure enough. Ugh, now I’m bored again. Gotta try and keep my eyes from glazing over…_  


  
  
Mark’s eyes had begun to glaze over again when his communicator buzzed. He blinked and focussed on the journalists, expecting another message from Princess. What he didn’t expect was the sequence of pulses that presaged an emergency message from Nerve Center.  
  
Mark was aware that Princess had shifted her stance slightly, tensing in response to the emergency code. He risked a glance at his colleague.  
  
Even as Princess turned her head to meet Mark’s gaze, every palm unit sitting on the long table in front of the ISO Chiefs of Staff and their liaison officers began to either buzz or beep, depending on whether their owners had remembered to switch them to silent mode.  
  
Ten hands reached for ten units and a clamour of questions erupted from the assembled journalists.  
  
Chief Anderson held up a commanding hand and projected his voice. “Ladies and Gentlemen!”  
  
The journalists subsided, staring expectantly at the Chief of Galaxy Security. “It appears there’s an emergency in progress,” Anderson said. “Please proceed to the emergency shelter in an orderly fashion.”  
  
“What’s the nature of the emergency?” one journalist called out, and was immediately joined by her colleagues, all asking much the same question at once.  
  
As if in answer, the journalists’ palm units began to sound with a public emergency warning. Outside, a siren began to sound, its wail barely audible over the pandemonium in the room.  
  
The building’s own emergency warning information system began to sound, drowning out the demands of the journalists.  
  
The combined security details of the assembled glitter of generals moved in, herding the protesting scoop of reporters toward the exit.  
  
Mark opened a voice channel on his communicator. “Zark, forget the coded stuff, just tell us straight what’s going on.”  
  
_“There’s a Spectra ship inbound, Commander. It looks as though it’s headed straight for Center City.”_  
  
“Big ten,” Mark said. “What’s the _Phoenix_ ’s ETA?”  
  
Tiny Harper’s reply was reassuring. _“Less’n five minutes, Commander. We’re comin’ in hot.”_


	32. Bradbury's Jar #292 - Fired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following on from last week's prompt: meanwhile, back aboard the Phoenix...

_“Raptor UCAV Squadron, we have the bogey on our scanners and it looks like she’s comin’ in hot,”_ the radio said. _“We’re in position to attack.”_  
  
“And that always works out so well for us,” Jason muttered. He was occupying Mark’s usual seat out of a sense of obligation and he was looking forward to giving it back to its usual occupant. He opened a channel. “Raptor UCAV Squadron, _Phoenix_. Hold your position. No weapons are to be **fired** until we get confirmation that the evac’s complete.”  
  
_“Message received,”_ came the reply. _"Stand by."_  
  
Jason closed the channel and turned to look over the back of the seat. “That’s all we need: some cowboy who wants to play shoot-em-up over the central business district. Anything yet, Keyop?”  
  
“One bogey approaching,” Keyop reported. “Computer reports no match to anything we’ve seen before.”  
  
“No surprises there,” Tiny said.  
  
Jason opened another comms channel. “Zark? You got any intel on our bogey?”  
  
7-Zark-7’s image appeared on the tele-comm screens. _“Yes, Jason. It appears to be an alien ship from Planet Spectra!”_  
  
Jason closed his eyes and silently counted to ten. “Anything else?” he asked. “Any ideas on weaponry, size, speed? Which weird animal or monster-of-the-week it resembles?”  
  
_“Initial imagery suggests that the ship is modelled after… a silverfish.”_  
  
Jason and Tiny exchanged glances.  
  
“A what?” Tiny asked.  
  
_“Silverfish,”_ Zark repeated helpfully.  
  
  
  
“A silverfish?” Chief Anderson echoed. “They must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel.” The ISO Chiefs of Staff, their liaison officers and their security details were making slow but steady process down the fire escape stairwell toward the shelter.  
  
“Maybe Zoltar overheard you at the Rigan Embassy ball,” Jones suggested.  
  
“Ah.” Anderson frowned, recalling a facetious comment he’d made to the spokesperson for the Galactic Peace Army after she’d declared that the answer to interplanetary conflict was love. Anderson’s sarcasm had refused to be reined in and he’d responded, _"So, you're suggesting that the next time a giant flying silverfish armed with missiles and laser cannons turns up over one of our cities and starts vaporising people, we should send flowers and see if they're open to the idea of dinner and a movie?"_  
  
It seemed his words were coming back to haunt him.  
  
“We could contact the Galactic Peace Army,” Jones deadpanned, “and see if they might like to try hugging it to death.”  
  
“I wish,” Anderson said. A thought occurred to him and he frowned. “Al?”  
  
“Yes, sir?” Jones said.  
  
“What do silverfish actually _do_?”  
  
Jones almost missed her footing on the stairs. “Do? I… I imagine that mostly they’re occupied with being silverfish, sir, but… um… I think… I think they eat books.”  
  
Anderson paused on the stairs and drew himself up. “They eat _books_?”  
  
“I believe so, sir.”  
  
“They _eat_ books?” Anderson’s jaw clenched and he resumed his descent of the staircase. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, withdrew his palm unit and opened a channel. “Mark,” he said, “when you see that ship, destroy it with _extreme prejudice_.”  
  
  
  
  
**The Silverfish**  
  
_“We’re on the roof,”_ Mark said. _“Home in on my signal.”_  
  
“Gotcha, Skipper!” Tiny said.  
  
“Hey, Jason,” Keyop said, “those UCAVs are still comin’ in hot.”  
  
“Whoa,” Jason said. “Are they going to attack over the city? Are they crazy?”  
  
“That’s a rhetorical question, right?” Keyop asked. “Because what our UCAVs mostly end up as is wreckage.”  
  
“That’s what I mean!” Jason exclaimed. “They’re going to be wreckage right over the top of the central business district and the evacuation isn’t complete!”  
  
  
  
“The evacuation isn’t complete!” Mark said. “Break off the attack!”  
  
_“Affirm, Commander,”_ the Air Force Squadron Leader said. _“The UCAVs will hold off until we get the all-clear from you.”_  
  
Mark closed the channel on his communicator and stared up into what would have been a clear blue sky if it weren’t for the layer of smog that hung over the city.  
  
The ISO Tower was the tallest building in Center City. From the roof, Mark had an eagle’s view of the surrounding landscape as well as the approaching Spectra ship. Zark had said it was a silverfish, whatever that was. Mark studied it through the blue tint of his visor, taking note of the built-in tactical information it displayed.  
  
The silverfish was shaped like a flattened teardrop with long antennae at the front and three legs at either side. The empennage narrowed to a point which ended in three more antenna-like structures. Mark frowned. It didn’t look particularly fishy, and it certainly wasn’t silver, having been tricked out in green and orange. Although… if he tilted his head to one side and squinted, it could be… maybe… kind of… sort of… fishy… ish?  
  
“Commander?” Princess ventured.  
  
“Silverfish,” Mark muttered.  
  
“I try not to think about Zoltar’s reasoning for ship design,” Princess said. “It only gives me a headache when I do.”  
  
“That’s probably pretty good advice,” Mark said, straightening up.  
  
A familiar roar had Mark and Princess scanning the sky for the _Phoenix_.  
  
“Looks like our ride’s here,” Mark said.  
  
Mark and Princess weren’t the only ones who had noticed the arrival of the G-Force Command Ship. The silverfish began to descend toward the Center City skyline.  
  
“They’re trying to use the city as a shield,” Princess observed, fists clenched at her sides. “They know we won’t fire on them while we’re still evacuating our people!”  
  
A hatch opened in the belly of the silverfish and small silver globes began to shoot outward in all directions, bouncing down onto the roofs of buildings and falling into the streets.  
  
“Bombs!” Mark observed.  
  
“They’re not exploding,” Princess said. “Not yet, anyway. What are those things?”  
  
_“Attention, G-Force!”_ 7-Zark-7 called, breaking in on the communications channel. _“Those are EMP generators! They’re knocking out systems all over the city! Get clear! Your cerebonics shouldn’t be affected and the core systems on the_ Phoenix _are shielded but you need to get clear or we’ll lose –”_  
  
Zark’s transmission cut out in a burst of static. The dull roar of the building’s air conditioning systems and fire escape fans died as the big compressors began to wind down.  
  
“My communicator’s dead,” Princess said. “Head-up display in my visor’s down.”  
  
“Looks like the building systems are down, too,” Mark said. He looked up to see the _Phoenix_ gaining altitude and banking away. “Good. Tiny’s putting plenty of room between the rest of the team and that thing. Let’s head down to the shelter and regroup with the Chief.”  
  
“Big ten!” Princess said. They ran for the stairwell door.  
  
Inside, the stairwell was gloomy. With no windows and all the doors rated for fire, there was no external light except for the fading glow from behind them as the door from the roof garden swung shut on its hinges. With a final heavy click of the latch, the last of the daylight vanished, leaving Mark and Princess staring into a 100-storey pit lit only by the eerie glow of the emergency signage and the glow-in-the-dark safety strips on the steps and along walls above the handrails.  
  
Mark tapped his helmet as his visor failed to automatically switch to night vision.  
  
“You got night vision, Mark?” Princess asked.  
  
“Nope,” Mark said.  
  
“Okay then,” Princess said. She reached into a belt pouch and withdrew a compact flashlight even as Mark did likewise. “Good thing our belt pouches are shielded,” she said, and began to hurry down the stairs.


	33. Bradbury's Jar #293 - Menace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'The Naked Wednesday' continues. We're still in Chapter 2 - The Silverfish. I'm basically scribbling away at my outline during the week and fitting the prompt in as we go. Also, I didn't know what this week's prompt was going to be until I posted this morning, albeit I was fairly confident it wasn't going to be Schadenfreude.

“Good thing this room’s shielded,” Anderson said. He and his fellow Chiefs of Staff, along with their liaison officers, were seated around the conference table in the ISO Tower’s Emergency Control Room. Situated several storeys below ground, it was shielded and powered by emergency battery banks. The server room was also shielded and remained operational, so the computers and palm unit docks continued to function, as did the emergency wireless network connection.  
  
“Somebody ought to go and calm those reporters down,” Space Admiral Aida Nagarajan said. “The ISO personnel are trained to deal with this, but who knows what the press are getting up to out there in the main shelter?”  
  
“No good, probably,” Field Marshal Yusef Al-Farouk growled.  
  
Anderson let his breath out in a sigh when he realised everyone was looking at him. “Ryuu’s the Chairman,” he pointed out.  
  
“But you were driving this particular session,” Admiral Sasaki countered with the smile of a man who had no intention of addressing a scoop of journalists.  
  
Colonel Jones got to her feet. “With your permission, sir?” she said to Anderson, correctly guessing that dealing with members of the Fourth Estate counted as ‘things that make my knuckles itch’ in Anderson’s book, and therefore something that would end up being delegated to her in the long run.  
  
“Thank you, Colonel,” Anderson said, relaxing. While Jones excused herself and left, Anderson turned his attention back to the big screens, several of which were showing static. One of them displayed the cybernetic visage of 7-Zark-7.  
  
“ _Nearly all the cameras and scanner installations in the central business district have been disabled_ ,” the robot said, wringing his hands together in synthetic distress. “ _All I have at the moment are the feeds from the Phoenix, the Air Force UCAVs and satellite imagery_.”  
  
“Do what you can with what you’ve got,” Anderson said.  
  
“ _I’ve also lost contact with Mark and Princess_ ,” Zark said. “ _They were on the roof of the ISO Tower when an EM pulse knocked our communications out. Tiny took the_ Phoenix _out of range in time to avoid being impacted by any of the EMP devices, but that meant Mark and Princess were left stranded! Now I can’t find them on any of the satellite feeds!_ ”  
  
“That’s because we’re here,” Mark said from the doorway. He strode into the room with Princess, fanning at his face with one hand. “It’s pretty intense out there in the shelter,” he remarked. “Some people use way too much cologne for confined spaces!”  
  
Anderson sniffed. “That smells like some kind of air freshener or something… like there’s… some kind of solvent in it.” He frowned. “Princess, lock the door behind you.”  
  
“I know that look,” Aida Nagarajan observed. “That’s your ‘the shit just hit the fan,’ look.”  
  
“Since when do I have a _look_ for that?” Anderson demanded.  
  
The other Chiefs of Staff exchanged glances and offered up a collective shrug.  
  
“For as long as I’ve known you,” Yusef Al-Farouk said.  
  
“Aida’s right,” Air Marshal Lynch agreed.  
  
“You do have a look for that,” Admiral Sasaki said.  
  
“Do not,” Anderson said.  
  
“Do, too!” Admiral Nagarajan shot back.  
  
Field Marshal Al-Farouk sniggered.  
  
“Wait a second,” Anderson said. “Why are we acting like we’re in the school playground?”  
  
“Because you’re a stubborn, bloody-minded alpha male who can’t admit that he’s wrong about anything!” Aida Nagarajan said. She clapped a hand over her mouth, then removed it after a second. “Did I just say that out loud?”  
  
“You certainly did,” Air Marshall Lynch said.  
  
“It’s kinda true,” Princess said. At the incredulous stare Mark directed at her, she shrugged. “You gonna tell me it isn’t?”  
  
Mark opened his mouth and closed it again, unable to come up with a rebuttal. He tilted his head slightly, listening to the sound of raised voices on the other side of the door he’d just come through.  
  
“Is there some kind of fight going on out there?” he wondered aloud.  
  
As if in answer, somebody rattled the door handle from the other side, then thumped on the door with considerable force.  
  
The occupants of the room exchanged worried looks.  
  
“I’m too old for mysteries,” Admiral Sasaki said. “Someone please explain what’s going on – in plain English that an old sea dog can understand if you don’t mind!”  
  
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Anderson said. He had his palm unit up against one ear. “On it,” he said to the person on the other end. “Mark, open the door and be ready to shut it again very quickly.”  
  
Mark complied and Lieutenant Colonel Jones darted through the gap along with the sound of raised voices and a waft of that same strange scent Mark had noted earlier. Mark slammed the door shut and locked it.  
  
Jones straightened her jacket and squared her shoulders, then walked with perfect poise to the conference table where she sat down next to Anderson, back ramrod straight. “It’s bloody bedlam out there,” she said.  
  
Anderson half-turned his chair so that he was facing Jones. “Tell me exactly what happened, starting from the beginning. Leave nothing out.”  
  
“I know that look,” Jones said. “You think you know what’s going on, don’t you?”  
  
“Not you too,” Anderson said. “And I don’t know what’s going on, not really. I’m just gathering information and entertaining a really unpleasant suspicion.”  
  
“I thought suspecting unpleasant things was a ground state for you,” Jones said. She paled. “Did I just…?”  
  
“Yeah,” Anderson said. “You did.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Don’t apologise,” Anderson said. “In this case, the shoe fits. Now, what happened out there?”  
  
“It started out fairly normally,” Jones said. “The journalists were slightly agitated, but no more than you’d expect. They had questions. I gave them the standard responses – you know: too early to say exactly what was going on, G Force was on the job, remain calm and we’ll all get through this, the basic sit-down-shut-up-and-let-us-do-our-job talk.”  
  
“Observations?” Anderson prompted.  
  
“As I said, the journalists were agitated, which was understandable, then some of them started moving around, sniffing and wafting their hands in front of their faces, and there was this odd smell, like really nasty cheap aftershave mixed with nail polish remover.”  
  
Anderson nodded. “What happened next?”  
  
“Someone jostled someone else and there were words exchanged. Some of the others had to step in and settling things down, then G-1 and G-3 came through, which had everyone focussing on them. There were more questions, mostly along the lines of ‘why are they here instead of fighting off the invader?’ and things started to get a bit fraught. From there it deteriorated into chaos and I thought I’d better leg it.”  
  
“Did you see anyone spraying anything, Al? Any kind of aerosol?”  
  
“Sorry, no,” Jones said.  
  
Field Marshal Al-Farouk frowned at Anderson. “Are you saying some kind of airborne agent’s causing behavioural changes?”  
  
“It looks that way,” Anderson said.  
  
“So what kind of agent?” Admiral Nagarajan asked. “Aren’t biologicals supposed to be picked up by the building scanners? Nobody should be able to get in here with a bio-weapon!”  
  
“True,” Anderson said. “That suggests that either it isn’t a biological, or it’s a biological engineered to get past our sensors.”  
  
“The trouble with you scientists,” Air Marshal Lynch growled, “is that you have to be so darned…”  
  
“Anal-retentive when it comes to accuracy?” Anderson suggested. “Sorry, Toby. Comes with the territory.”  
  
“Are we affected by this, do you think, David?” Admiral Sasaki asked. “Judging by some of the unfiltered comments a few minutes ago, I’m inclined to think we might be.”  
  
“I’d say so,” Anderson said. “We should probably try to be careful. An all-out brawl in here wouldn’t look too good, especially when you consider the next room’s full of journalists.”  
  
“We should try moving them to one of the other rooms in the complex,” Toby Lynch suggested.  
  
“And possibly spread the contagion to the rest of the staff? No,” Anderson said. “Much as I’d like to kick the lot of them out into the street, we need to keep a lid on whatever this is. That means you can’t re-join your team just yet, Commander,” Anderson said to Mark.  
  
“That’s… less than ideal,” Mark said carefully.  
  
“I know,” Anderson said. “We’re just going to have to work with what we’ve got.”  
  
“Meanwhile, that… that silverfish thing is floating around the rooftops with nothing to stop it!” Mark said.

 

 

Above Center City, the silverfish floated around the rooftops with nothing to stop it.  
  
From his vantage point in the control room, Captain Veshkanian was tempted to gloat. Lieutenant Derel, who had known Veshkanian since boyhood, got up out of his seat and joined his friend at the main viewscreen.  
  
“G-Force seems to be keeping their distance,” he observed carefully.  
  
Veshkanian nodded. Not only had he and Derel grown up together, they had gone through officer training together, served together, risen through the ranks together, been defeated and humiliated by G-Force together and then been demoted together before being given a second chance with this mission. “If the ISO follows its usual patterns of behaviour,” Veshkanian said at last, “we may expect to see their remote-controlled fighters at any time. I confess I am surprised that we have not already encountered them.”  
  
“Could they be learning?” Derel speculated.  
  
“I wish they would learn on someone else’s watch,” Veshkanian muttered darkly.  
  
“Oh, I agree,” Derel said, “but if they aren’t going to attack with the remote-controlled fighters, perhaps we should simply move forward with the next phase of Lord Zoltar’s plan.”  
  
  
  
  
“Zoltar must have a plan,” Anderson muttered. He had taken to pacing up and down the length of the Emergency Control Room. “He isn’t keeping us bottled up in here just for shits and giggles.”  
  
“Oh, I dunno,” Princess said. She was perched on the countertop that ran along one wall at the back of the room. “Shits and giggles are totally his style.”  
  
“Language!” Mark hissed, shocked.  
  
“Pfft!” Princess said, waving a negligent hand in Mark’s direction. “It’s not like I said the f-word or anything! You know your problem? Your problem –”  
  
“Isn’t up for discussion right at this moment, Lieutenant!” Colonel Jones said, having recognised the signs. She was on her feet and steering Princess to the chair at the conference table which Anderson had vacated.  
  
“Why do you want me to sit here?” Princess demanded.  
  
“Because you haven’t had enough tequila to equal floor!” Jones said.  
  
“Tequila?” Princess’ brow furrowed. “I haven’t had _any_ tequila!”  
  
“No, it just seems that way, doesn’t it?” Jones said, folding her arms and studying Princess’ face. She glanced over at Anderson. “Sir?”  
  
“Tequila?” Anderson queried.  
  
“The tequila chant, sir,” Jones recounted patiently.  
  
“I know that one!” Tobias Lynch said. “It goes, one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor!”  
  
Anderson stopped pacing and stared at Princess. “You’re drunk?” He thought for a moment. “So… whatever that compound is… it brings on a state akin to intoxication?”  
  
“Well done, you,” Jones murmured.  
  
“I heard that,” Anderson said.  
  
“I could make coffee,” Jones suggested.  
  
“Colonel,” Anderson said, “we’re trying to deal with an intoxicant, not hospitalise a room full of people. Besides which, coffee doesn’t actually sober you up… although…”  
  
“Yes, sir?”  
  
“The idea of your coffee has to count as a sobering thought in anybody’s book.”  
  
“Yes, sir, quite.” Jones made her way to the door and listened. “Things seem to be settling down a bit out there. At least they’re not singing _The Song of Angry Men_ , anyway.” She listened again. “Mind you… someone seems to be trying to stir them up to it.”  
  
Anderson’s expression was grim. “Oh, really?”  
  
Mark paid attention to the clamour on the other side of the door. He could hear someone speaking:  
  
“…Warmongers! If it wasn’t for the ISO we wouldn’t be hiding here like rats in a trap! Those people in that room are the ones bringing us to the edge of extinction!”   
  
Mark had heard enough. He strode to the door. Jones automatically stepped aside to let the G-Force Commander through.  
  
The journalists appeared to have sorted themselves out. The squabbles Jones had described didn’t appear to have amounted to much, but the group definitely had a slightly frayed-around-the-edges look to it.  
  
The young man who had apparently been struggling to stay awake during Anderson’s presentation was standing on a table, apparently trying to turn the group into a mob.  
  
“Apart from the fact that there’s an enemy ship in the sky over the city,” Mark said, “is there a problem here?”  
  
“The problem is you and your masters!” the orator declared. “They’re the ones perpetuating the cycle of violence! It takes two sides to have a war!”  
  
“Yeah, right,” one of the other reporters said. “When there’s only one side, it’s called an _invasion_! Get down and shut the hell up, you idiot!”  
  
A wave of muttering had several members of the fourth estate moving forward to shut their young colleague up whether he wanted to or not.  
  
“Whoa! Hold it!” Mark said. “Hey, we may not all agree with… uh… what’s your name?”  
  
“Garner,” the young man said, visibly shaken. “Adam Garner, from _Nova_ magazine.”  
  
There was another wave of mutterings from the scoop.  
  
“Fricken Galactic Peace Army!” a woman snarled.  
  
“Hey!” Mark exclaimed. “He’s entitled to his opinion… even if it is a completely stupid opinion. We’re a free society and he’s allowed to be a dumbass if that’s what he chooses to be. It’s, uh… it’s one of the things that separates us from… from those other guys… our enemy, right, everyone?”  
  
The journalists, who had a vested interest in Freedom of Speech, shuffled their feet and muttered rebelliously, but mostly on principle.  
  
A little core of suspicion was beginning to coalesce in Mark’s slightly befuddled mind. “Hey, Adam… buddy… tell me something. D’you know anything about a… what’s the word… _compound_ that might have been... _accidentally_ released in here… something to make people a little more amenable to reaching for the torches and pitchforks with the right kind of motivation?”  
  
Adam Garner, Mark observed, had begun to perspire. Mark folded his arms. “How’d you like an exclusive with the evil warmongers?” he asked. The journalists scuttled out of his way as he crossed the room, cape billowing, to haul Garner off the desk. “Where’s his gear?” Mark asked the room in general.  
  
Several people glanced around until a middle-aged man picked up a lightweight backpack from behind the desk and offered it to Mark. “I think this is his,” the reporter, whose media pass read, ‘Chen, Darren – GNN,’ said.  
  
Mark took it gratefully. “Thanks, Mister Chen. I’m just going to take Adam in for a little talk with my boss. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine… I hope.”  
  
“You hope?” Darren Chen echoed, sensing a story.  
  
“Well…” Mark hedged, “y’see, we’ve all been affected by some kind of airborne agent that acts like an intoxicant, so Chief Anderson doesn’t have all of his usual filters up and running, and I mean… if you’d ever been dragged over the coals by Chief Anderson, you’d be pretty scared of that. I mean, when he gives you _the look_ , and then he kinda raises one eyebrow… and then he gets _sarcastic_ … Boy… I’d rather face down a squad of Spectra goons than deal with Chief Anderson getting sarcastic.”  
  
Several of the journalists exchanged glances, and a few palmed voice recorders and notepads. “Is that the worst he ever does?” a woman asked.  
  
“No.” Mark shuddered. “Sometimes he doesn’t say anything… He just gives you this stare that makes you wish the ground’d open up and swallow you.”  
  
“So,” Darren Chen said, “you’re taking this guy… this guy, right?” The journalist shook his head as if to clear it. “You’re taking this guy in to be stared at by Chief Anderson?”  
  
“Yeah,” Mark said. “I wouldn’t be in his shoes for all the tea in China.” Mark blinked. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.”  
  
“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t,” Chen agreed. “I should be asking you about this… what did you say it was?”  
  
One of the other reporters spoke up. “Incontinent,” he said.  
  
“No,” another member of the press corps said, wagging a finger. “Intixocant.”  
  
“Thingy,” Chen said. “Thing that’s floating around and making us all… you know… thing.”  
  
“No,” Mark said, “that’s what we’re going to be asking _this guy_ about.” Hefting the backpack in one hand and with the other around Adam Garner’s upper arm, Mark turned and made for the Emergency Control Room, dragging the slightly uncoordinated agitator with him. When he reached the door, he gave it a tap with the toe of one boot.  
  
“That you, Mark?” he heard Princess call.  
  
“No, it’s Jason,” Mark said.  
  
“Good enough,” Princess replied and opened the door, ushering the two men inside before closing it again. “This our troublemaker?”  
  
“Nah, I just brought him in here ‘cause he’s funny,” Mark said and frogmarched Adam Garner across the room to stand in front of the whiteboard that stood near the head of the big conference table. “Here he is, Chief. One Adam Garner, from _Nova_ magazine.”  
  
“Hey,” Admiral Nagarajan said as Mark released his grip on Garner, “isn’t that the Galactic Peace Army’s mouthpiece?”  
  
“The same,” Chief Anderson said. His expression suggested he’d just found the journalist on the sole of his shoe and then possibly wiped him off using a copy of _Nova_ magazine.  
  
“Free speech is not a crime!” Garner exclaimed, but his voice wavered.  
  
“True,” Anderson said, leaning back in his chair. “Feel free to say whatever you like.” He steepled his fingers. “However, introducing a mind-altering substance to the air at the ISO Tower, affecting us, our staff and your colleagues during an emergency alert? That’s a whole other kettle of fish, Mister Garner.” Anderson’s tone turned silky with **menace**. “Now, why don’t you exercise that freedom of speech and tell us all about it?”  
  
Garner drew himself up. “The… the stuff I used, it’s called _Tahtdos_ by the indigenes on Planet Allora. They use it in ceremonies. It’s harmless.”  
  
“But?” Anderson prompted. “There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere, and I’m not talking about your head, Mister Garner. Please continue.”  
  
“The Allorans also call it ‘the truthsayer,’ because when they all… you know… do that thing… breathe it in… inhale it, I mean… it makes you tell the truth. It kinda mellows you out, too, after a few minutes, so you don’t wanna get up and lay into people if the truth is uncomfortable, but you _do_ tell the truth, and that’s what I wanted you to do.”  
  
Anderson took a deep breath and removed his glasses. He fished in one pocket for a handkerchief and began cleaning the lenses. “I see,” he said. “And whose idea was it to pull this stunt today? How did you manage to time it with the arrival of an enemy ship?”  
  
“I didn’t,” Garner said. “Had no idea Spectra was going to do anything today. It’s all a big co… co-inti… um… one of those weird things that happens.”  
  
“A coincidence,” Anderson said. “Somehow, I doubt that. You felt that exposing the ISO Chiefs of Staff to a mind-altering drug at today’s press conference would make us tell the truth to the galaxy’s media about the war. How we’re all doing this for fun and profit, right? Would you like to hear the truth about the war, Mister Garner?”  
  
“That’s what all this is about!” Garner exclaimed. He leaned forward to slap the palms of his hands on the conference table for emphasis, but he was standing too far back from it and missed, toppling forward instead. It was only Mark’s reflexes that enabled the G-Force Commander to catch the young journalist before he hit his head on the polished timber of the table.  
  
“You’re some kind of idiot, you know that?” Mark said as he righted the would-be instigator of truth-telling.  
  
“I don’t think he’s realised it, yet,” Anderson said.  
  
“You gonna enlighten him?” Mark asked.  
  
“Oh, yes,” Anderson said. “I’m going to do what he wants and tell him the absolute truth.”

 

 

To be continued...


	34. Bradbury's Jar #294 - Method

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only a short offering this week: Windows 10 ate my document file! Fortunately I was able to retrieve a backup copy, but it took some doing.

Now begins Chapter 3 - My Inner Psychopath  
  
“Are you okay?” Jason asked. “I mean… I’ve never seen you drunk. Does anyone there have a camera?”  
  
“Very funny,” Mark said, his image glaring from the tele-comm screen. “We’re fine. I mean, we’re both pretty much saying anything and everything that pops into our heads, but apart from that, we’re okay.”  
  
“Anything?” Keyop echoed, eyes wide.  
  
“Let’s not go there, Keyop,” Mark warned, having retained at least some presence of mind.  
  
Jason frowned as a thought occurred to him. “Hey, skipper, you’re not mentally incapacitated are you? Because that would put me in command, right when I can’t go weapons-free, and the irony could cause some serious psychological harm, here. I could be scarred for life.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Mark said again. “So relax and stay away from the big red button, okay?”  
  
“Gotcha,” Jason said. “I feel better about it now.”  
  
“Why?” Mark asked. “You can’t push the firing button either way!”  
  
“Yeah,” Jason reasoned, “but I can be cool about it if you’ve told me not to.”  
  
“Jason…” Mark took a deep breath. “Just don’t push the big red button. Out.”  
  
The tele-comm screen faded into inactivity. Jason looked from Tiny to Keyop and back again.  
  
“What?” he demanded.  
  
  
  
“What?” Adam Garner gasped, eyes wide. “I… I never… No! This was never part of a coordinated attack! This is civil disobedience!”  
  
“Bullshit,” Anderson said. The Chief of Galaxy Security wasn’t raising his voice. He wasn’t even putting any particular effort into glaring or glowering. “You, Mister Garner, are a tool.”  
  
Garner opened his mouth and closed it again.  
  
“In every sense of the word,” Anderson continued. He leaned back in his chair. “You’re actually dumb enough to think that you’re acting for the greater good and haven’t been influenced, manipulated and downright handled by Spectra. God, Zoltar must have laughed the house down when he saw what he was getting with you. I’m tempted to let you go, but that’d be cruel and unusual punishment on my part, I think.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Garner asked.  
  
“That’d mean letting you out there,” Anderson said with a nod toward the door. “Where your colleagues, who are aware that you drugged them all, are waiting for you, intoxicated, with all the filters off.”  
  
Garner swallowed. “Maybe I should just stay here,” he said, voice wavering.  
  
  
  
“You should stay here,” Veshkanian said. “If there are G-Force members in the ISO Tower, I may well need backup.”  
  
“The images were poor-quality,” Derel said with an impatient wave of one hand at the scanner screen, which showed a pixelated view of the roof of the ISO Tower just before the EMP bombs had gone off. There were two figures heading for what looked like a stairwell door. They appeared to be wearing capes and helmets with birdlike visors. “Lord Zoltar’s plan specifies that we both go in.”  
  
“I know,” Veshkanian said. “It’s our punishment for that fiasco on Gaia. Derel, I’m ordering you to remain aboard the ship in case things go wrong. There is **method** in my madness: if I am captured or killed, someone with authority must at least try to salvage something from this mess. Crash the ship into the Tower if you have to.”  
  
“Very well,” Derel said. “I will remain here, but if you are captured, I will mount a rescue mission to get you out.”  
  
“You will follow your orders, my friend,” Veshkanian said. “I am still in command of this mission. Now, bring us in and get us close to the roof.”  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
**Note** : I know that in canon, Jason is sometimes represented (by Zark) as being hot-headed and power-hungry. The most obvious and Zarky example of this was the Bowling Ball ep, where Jason attempts to relieve Mark of command when Mark decides that discretion is the better part of valour. I have to say that when I first watched the episode as a kid, I was on Jason's side. I mean, there was this oil tanker, presumably with a full crew complement on board, about to be attacked by a giant bowling ball that slices and dices, and Mark's all like, "Nothing we can do here!" I mean, he didn't even try to distract the mecha long enough for the oil tanker crew to man the life boats and get the hell out of Dodge! G-Force were supposed to be the good guys and they were abandoning the tanker and all souls aboard her to an uncertain fate at best, a fiery and/or watery death at worst. No wonder Jason arced up. Despite what Zark says, Jason's behaviour is consistent: he only ever tries to take over when he thinks Mark is making a really bad decision. In the case of the bowling ball and the oil tanker, he was probably trying to save lives. Under normal circumstances, Jason is comfortable being Mark's 2IC, and it's worth remembering that one of the things a good Executive Officer has to be trained to do is to take over in an emergency and relieve the Commanding Officer if said Commanding Officer starts wearing his or her underpants on their head.  
  
Hence, in this situation, Jason is cool with remaining 2IC, but if Mark starts to show any signs of creativity with underwear, he's prepared to step in.


	35. Bradbury's Jar #297 - School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I missed a few prompts thanks to Real Life in the form of National Science Week 2017 (Science!) during which I taught home-schoolers how to dissect owl pellets (gross but fascinating!) and a virus which gave me vestibulitis/labyrinthitis, so my head was spinning even more than usual. We take a break from 'The Naked Wednesday' for a little one-shot.
> 
> Keyop has tutors for most subjects, but the team psychologists insist on him attending some classes at an educational institution full of ISO brats so that he can learn to socialise outside the team.

Keyop suppressed a sigh as he watched Marcie Connell's mom explain what life was like as a paramedic.  
  
Of all the classes the team psychologists had to insist he attend, home room was probably the worst.  
  
Keyop tried to comfort himself with the thought that a good proportion of the adults attending Parent Career Day would be obliged to salute him when he was in his G-Force gear, but it didn't really help.  
  
Marcie was looking smug as her mother finished talking.  
  
Keyop wished he could throw down a smoke bomb and vanish like a ninja when Mr Jackson cast his gaze around the room and looked straight at Keyop. Mr Jackson checked his list and arranged a kindly, probably-meant-to-be-sympathetic look on his face. "Keyop Anderson," he read out. "Do you have a parent here today?"  
  
Mr Jackson was obliged to move out of the way of the door to avoid being hit by it as a latecomer burst into the room without knocking. As the teacher recovered his balance he drew himself up. "Good morning. Are you here for Parent Career Day?"  
  
"Yeah," Jason said. "Sorry I'm late. I'm standing in for Doctor Anderson. He got called away to a meeting."  
  
Keyop stopped wishing he could throw a smoke bomb and began wishing that the ground would open up and swallow him, instead. Jason was going to ruin everything!  
  
Mr Jackson gave Jason a disapproving look. "It must have been an important meeting," he said.  
  
Jason went very still and gave Mr Jackson the kind of look that made Spectra commanders start to sweat. Keyop leaned forward in his seat. Maybe this was about to get interesting.  
  
"The Secretary of Defence thought it was," Jason said levelly.  
  
Keyop watched Mr Jackson. Yep. He was sweating.  
  
"Well," the teacher said, struggling to recover control of the conversation. "You're just in time, mister...?"  
  
"Major Jason Anderson, Galaxy Security," Jason said. He didn't extend a hand.  
  
Keyop was aware of a subtle shift of position as several of the attending parents instinctively straightened up. Keyop began to suspect that maybe, just maybe there were advantages to being enrolled in a prestigious military **school** after all, since nearly every student had at least one close relative who was serving or had served in the ISO.  
  
"Who's that?" Keyop heard Marcie whisper from her desk to his right.  
  
"My brother," Keyop whispered back, sticking to his cover story. He folded his arms. Jason would now bore the class with a bland repetition of his cover story, how he worked for Galaxy Security Research and Development and couldn't go into any details, because everything was classified, blah, blah, blah.  
  
"Hi," Jason said, having been waved to the front of the room by Mr Jackson. "I'm Keyop's brother, standing in for our father, who is the most boring man in the galaxy, so be glad he couldn't make it today."  
  
_Or any other day,_ a rebellious corner of Keyop's mind snarked.  
  
"I have a really dull day job working for Galaxy Security," Jason continued, "but I'm also a semi-professional race car driver. What do you guys want me to talk about? G-Sec or race cars?"  
  
Keyop glanced around the room as his classmates made the obvious choice.  
  
As Jason began to talk about racing, Keyop settled back in his seat. His classmates were all watching Jason and listening to him, and when Keyop glanced to his right, he noticed Marcie giving him a frankly admiring stare.   
  
Keyop turned his attention back to Jason, who smirked at him, having noticed the interaction.  
  
Keyop figured he was probably going to owe Jason a favour, but in the meantime, maybe home room wasn't going to be so bad after all.


	36. Bradbury's Jar #298 - Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another one-shot, in which misery loves company.

"My lord!"  
  
The pounding at the door refused to stop or go away.  
  
"My lord, you are summoned!"  
  
Zoltar groaned and took his head out from under the pillow. "Tell the Luminous One that I will attend presently!" he shouted. He briefly considered throwing the pillow at the door but didn't have the energy. He threw off the covers, sat up, thrust his feet into his fluffy purple slippers and stood up. He found his purple chenille bathrobe and pulled it on over his flannel pyjamas (purple again, with red cats'-heads printed on the fabric) then found his mask and put it on. His blonde hair spilled from the back of the mask but he simply tucked it in under the collar of the robe, tied the belt and trudged into the corridor.  
  
Mala's bedroom door opened and Zoltar's sister appeared in the doorway, dishevelled and bleary-eyed. "What is all the racket about?" Mala demanded.  
  
"Guess," Zoltar growled.  
  
"Again?" Mala speculated. "Do you want me to come with you?"  
  
"No," Zoltar said. "There is no sense in both of us losing sleep. Go back to bed, dear heart. Try to get some rest for both of us."  
  
"Send for me if you need me," Mala said before disappearing back into her room.  
  
Zoltar made his way to the Presence Chamber, where the Great Spirit of Spectra fretted and hissed. He bowed and sank to one knee. "You sent for me, O Luminous One?" he said.  
  
"Yes," the Great Spirit said.  
  
Zoltar took a deep breath and let it out. "How may I be of service, O Great Light of Wisdom?"  
  
"I wish to hear more of the history of Earth from times gone by," the Great Spirit said. "I feel we can learn from these ancient philosophers, and I find it soothing."  
  
"Of course, Luminous One," Zoltar said. "Your wisdom is unsurpassed, as always." He rose and made his way to the steps, where he eased himself into a sitting position and tried to call to mind something that the Great Spirit might like to hear. "This particular parable is about the rewards of choosing one's battles and making strong alliances against a superior enemy," he said.  
  
"Very good," said the Great Spirit. "Begin."  
  
Zoltar smothered a yawn. "Once upon a time," he said, "there were three Billy Goats Gruff..."  
  
He fervently hoped that the Great Spirit would recover from Its bout of **insomnia** before he ran out of fairy tales.


	37. Bradbury's Jar #302 - Indecent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zark never was terribly good at English.

“Uh, Chief?”  
  
Keyop stood in the doorway of Security Chief Anderson’s office, clutching his tablet to his chest and shuffling one foot in the carpet.  
  
Anderson glanced up from the report he was reviewing. “Come in, Keyop,” he said. “What can I do for you?”  
  
Keyop stood in front of Anderson’s desk and waited while the Chief of Galaxy Security marked his place in the report and gave his full attention to his visitor. Keyop took a breath.  
  
“Um, sir, how come Zark isn’t allowed to help me with my homework any more?”  
  
“Because Zark’s linguistic programming needs a little work before he can help you. Besides, Doctor McCall thinks – and I concur – that you’d do better interacting with human tutors.”  
  
“Was this because of my history assignment?” Keyop asked. “I apologised for that already.”  
  
“I know you did,” Anderson said, “and as I said, that wasn’t your fault. There are any number of people you can ask to check your work before you submit it. Why don’t you ask Colonel Jones? She has a degree in information management – and more importantly, she can spell.”  
  
“I sorta went to ask her,” Keyop said.  
  
“And?” Anderson prompted.  
  
“She wasn’t in her office. Gunny said she was at a professional development thing over at the Academy. Maybe Gunny could help me?”  
  
“I keep Gunny pretty busy with my work,” Anderson said. He got up out of his chair, having made an executive decision. “Come on over to the sofa. I’ll check your homework.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really,” Anderson said.  
  
“Oh, okay.” Keyop trailed after Anderson and climbed up onto one of the couches that were normally used for G-Force briefings. He handed over his tablet, having called up the relevant file. “It’s English Literature,” he said.  
  
“Oh. Right.” Anderson began reading. “You know, this isn’t exactly my strongest subject,” he confessed. He raised his eyebrows. “ _The deep-seated fear of the feminine principle-slash-anima threat to members of a…_ – oh, right – _patriarckal society_?” he read aloud. “I thought _Macbeth_ was about a Scottish guy murdering his way to the top?”  
  
“On one level, it is,” Keyop said sagely.  
  
“If you say so. Patriarchal’s spelled with a ‘c’ and an ‘h’, not a ‘k.’”  
  
“Oh, thanks.”  
  
Anderson skimmed the rest of the essay, making the odd correction. “There,” he said. “As for the actual content, maybe you should talk with Colonel Jones. When’s this due?”  
  
“Wednesday,” Keyop said.  
  
“Well, you’ve got time,” Anderson said. “I have to get back to work now.”  
  
“Okay. Thanks for helping me, Chief.” Keyop left the room, the tablet tucked under one arm.  
  
Gunnery Sergeant McAllister entered the office carrying a cup of coffee as Anderson returned to his desk. “Dad duties, sir?” he inferred.  
  
“So it would seem” Anderson said.  
  
“So, how come Zark isn’t allowed to help Keyop with his homework any more?” McAllister asked.  
  
“Like I said to Keyop,” Anderson recounted, “Zark’s linguistic programming needs work. He makes some really basic mistakes and his spelling leaves a lot to be desired. You remember when I had to leave the office the other week and go to that parent-teacher meeting?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“Keyop had written an essay about Vincent Van Gogh. He’d finished up by saying that Van Gogh died indigent, but he spelled it incorrectly and Zark re-wrote it to read that Van Gogh died **indecent**.”  
  
A short bark of laughter escaped Gunnery Sergeant McAllister’s lips. “Well that explains it!” he said. “Things are never boring when you’ve got kids, are they, sir?”  
  
“No,” Anderson said, “and you have all of this to look forward to. How old are your girls again?”  
  
“Five,” McAllister said.  
  
“Laugh it up while you can,” Anderson said. “Oh, and please follow up with QTL about the upgrade to Zark’s language pack?”  
  
“Right away, sir!”  
  



	38. Bradbury's Jar #303 - Syrup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keyop finds a sticky solution to a sucky problem.

The Spectra ship was basically a giant turbine with wings.  
  
At one end, it was the vacuum-cleaner from hell, picking up and sucking in anything in its path that wasn’t nailed down.  
  
At the other end, it was the leaf-blower from hell, blasting and tossing around anything left in its path, regardless of nails.  
  
It was only Tiny Harper’s piloting skills and the brute force of the _Phoenix_ ’s engines that saved the G-Force command ship from sustaining some serious damage.  
  
“If only we could have gone to _Fiery Phoenix_ ,” Princess lamented as the team reviewed the mission logs. “It would’ve been ‘goodnight, nurse.’”  
  
“And massive collateral damage,” Jason finished. “Melting our own cities isn’t a good look.”  
  
“No point crying over spilt milk,” Mark pointed out. “The real problem’s that darned repulsor field protecting the turbine intake.”  
  
Security Chief Anderson paused the video feed. “It’s a masterful piece of engineering,” he said, somewhat grudgingly. “It allows air through, obviously, but bounces solids away like so many ping-pong balls.”  
  
Keyop sat up. “What about liquids?” he asked.  
  
Anderson frowned. “What did you have in mind?”  
  
Keyop shifted nervously in his seat, aware that everyone in the room was looking at him. “Just an idea,” he said. “You might not like it. You were pretty mad the last time I did it.”  
  
“Let me be the judge of that,” Anderson said.  
  
  
  
Zoltar threw back his head and laughed. The members of the G-Force team were glaring at him from the big screen, sitting sullen and angry aboard the _Phoenix._ “Ah, G-Force,” Zoltar crooned, “you are helpless before my new weapon! See how I destroy your infrastructure with impunity! There is nothing you can do to stop me!”  
  
Mark got to his feet and walked to the centre of the bridge to glare up at the tele-comm screen. “We’ll find a way, you maniac!” Mark insisted. “We’ll never give in to you!”  
  
Behind her console, Princess’ hands flew over her controls. “ _Yes!”_ she hissed under her breath, and an indicator lit up on Jason’s console.  
  
“You are ineffective!” Zoltar crowed. “Useless! Earth shall be mine!”  
  
Mark hung his head, breathing deeply, fists clenched and shaking at his sides.  
  
Tiny Harper allowed the _Phoenix_ to drift further out over the bay. The great flying turbine followed.  
  
“Have I upset you?” Zoltar taunted. “Have you no defiant words for me now, G-Force?”  
  
In the belly of the _Phoenix_ , a hatch opened and a Bird Missile was lowered into the firing position.  
  
The missile targeting system issued forth a tone.  
  
“How adorable!” Zoltar said. “You have missile lock! Go ahead! Waste your ordnance against my magnificent new force field!”  
  
“G-2, what are you doing?” Mark demanded. “You know that isn’t going to work!”  
  
Zoltar laughed gleefully. “Aha! Dissention in the ranks!”  
  
Jason stabbed a button, and the Bird Missile’s thruster ignited. The missile flew free of the firing rack.  
  
“What the hell?” Mark roared, to Zoltar’s evident delight.  
  
Princess stabbed at a control on her console. “Signal away,” she said, her voice rich with satisfaction.  
  
Zoltar stopped laughing. “What?” he snapped at someone out of frame.  
  
“EM modulation on the field, Sire!” said an apparently disembodied voice.  
  
The Bird Missile exploded and a cloud of red vapour passed through the force field. It was immediately sucked in to the giant turbine.  
  
“Take us upstairs, Tiny,” Mark ordered. “Princess, keep that channel open. I want to see Zoltar’s face.”  
  
The _Phoenix_ gained altitude while smoke began to billow from the massive turbine.  
  
From the tele-comm, the sound of alarms and voices raised in fear and concern could be heard.  
  
“Hey, Zoltar!” Mark called. “Tell me again about your invincible ship!”  
  
There was no reply. A small escape craft shot free from the attack ship’s dorsal surface.  
  
“After him!” Mark snapped, and Tiny Harper complied.  
  
“He’s going too fast, Commander,” Tiny said. “We’ll never catch him.”  
  
“I’ve alerted the Patrol,” Princess said.  
  
Below, the turbine was venting black smoke and objects – mostly pieces of turbine blade – were being expelled from the exhaust. The ship lost altitude and ditched messily in the waters of the bay.  
  
“Nice work, team,” Mark said.  
  
“And nice acting,” Jason said as he leaned back in his seat. “For a second, there, I almost thought you meant it. I’m so glad we’re still BFFs!” he mugged with a grin.  
  
“The real kudos has go to Keyop,” Princess said.  
  
“Absolutely,” Mark said. “Well done.”  
  
Keyop’s grin was almost as wide as his face.  
  
  
  
“Congratulations on a successful mission,” Chief Anderson said. The team, transmuted back to their civilian attire, were arranged around Anderson’s office. “Keyop, using that **syrup** of Red Mist Disintegrator with popping candy was a stroke of genius. The rest of you played your parts perfectly. Well done, all of you.”  
  
Keyop, who hadn’t stopped grinning since he’d watched the Spectra ship start to malfunction, puffed out his chest. “See?” he said. “My science experiment wasn’t a total failure after all!”  
  
“Yeah,” Tiny said with a chuckle. “It gummed up Zoltar’s turbine like super-glue!”  
  
“But it wouldn’t have gotten past the field if Princess hadn’t configured that field modulation beam to let the atomised droplets through, and if Jason hadn’t blown up the Bird Missile at the exact right moment!” Keyop said, sharing the glory around.  
  
Anderson’s smile was wry. “Let’s call it a _felix culpa,_ ” he conceded. “Popping candy’s _still_ banned from Science Center.”  
  
  
  
  
NOTES:  
Red Mist is a chemical agent used by Galaxy Security in the episode _Island of Fear_ , which could be subtitled, ' _Archipelago of Wanton Environmental Damage_.' The substance in question is described by Zoltar as _, "Their dangerous disintegrator, Red Mist!"_ It puts the wind up him something fierce and leads him to abandon his big scary ship, leaving his crew to their fate. It looks like raspberry cordial.  
  
_The Experiment_ may be read here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7295605 In it, we find out what happens when you mix Red Mist and popping candy. Chief Anderson is not amused.  
  



	39. Bradbury's Jar #304 - Spice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary-Sue is young, beautiful, popular, ambitious, musically gifted... and really, really annoying.

Mary-Sue had taken any number of selfies at the ISO Tower. It was weird, though, the way a lot of her photographs seemed to disappear off her phone as if by magic. They were good ones, too – well, all of them were, naturally. Mary-Sue was very photogenic with her clear, tanned skin, big blue eyes and blonde hair.  
  
Initially, Mary-Sue had been disappointed that she was assigned to the ISO Public Relations office for her internship. GNN News had been her first choice, after all, she was going to be a reporter, or a news anchor… or maybe a world-famous fashion model, that was if her singing career didn’t take off in the meantime, as was very likely.  
  
At least in Mary-Sue’s estimation, which was always high.  
  
Except on those rare occasions where she experienced teen angst. When she experienced teen angst, Mary-Sue painted her fingernails black and listened to _Evanescence_ for hours at a time while pondering the injustices of life. It was heart-rending, really.  
  
At least in Mary-Sue’s estimation.  
  
Mr Ikari was the Director ISO PR, and he was a silly fusspot in Mary-Sue’s opinion. He was always going on about ‘appropriate behaviour,’ and ‘security,’ and all that boring stuff. He’d told Mary-Sue she wasn’t allowed to post about her day on social media while she was at the office! He’d even threatened to confiscate Mary-Sue’s phone in its pink patent leather case with all the pretty rhinestone butterflies on it! How dare he?  
  
Mr Ikari was being _completely unreasonable_.  
  
At least in Mary-Sue’s estimation.  
  
“Mary-Sue?” Oliver, Ikari’s administrative assistant, knocked at the door to the rest room. “Mary-Sue? Mister Ikari says that he’s leaving and he’s not going to hold the car for you!”  
  
Mary-Sue rolled her beautiful eyes and added the finishing touches to her mascara.  
  
“All _right_ , Ollie! I’m on my way!” Geez, what sticks-in-the-mud these ISO types were!  
  
“It’s _Oliver_ ,” Oliver said.  
  
“Whatevs,” Mary-Sue told him.  
  
Mr Ikari was getting into the elevator when Mary-Sue ducked in to the car.  
  
“We’re almost ten minutes behind schedule!” Mr Ikari said. “Mary-Sue, if this keeps up, I’m going to have to speak to Counsellor Moon and review your internship.”  
  
“Sorr-eeee!” Mary-Sue said, and batted her eyelashes.  
  
Evan Ikari let his breath out in a huff and glowered at the elevator door as it closed.  
  
He was such a dork.  
  
At least in Mary-Sue’s estimation.  
  
On reflection, Mary-Sue mused, maybe she shouldn’t wind Mr Ikari up. He might do something mean and petty, like not introduce her to G-Force. Even if he _did_ cut her internship short, she’d be fine with it after meeting G-Force! The Commander was _so_ dreamy, and G-2 was so handsome! It was a pity Mary-Sue was only sixteen. She’d make a much prettier G-3 than that girl they had on the team.  
  
At least in Mary-Sue’s estimation.  
  
  
  
When they got to the spaceport, the security officers had actually taken Mary-Sue’s phone! The nerve! Some nonsense about high levels of security or something. Boy, Mary-Sue would have something to say about that on her social media feed when she got that phone back!  
  
Thoughts of internet-based vengeance evaporated when Mary-Sue was ushered through a doorway and found herself staring at the G-Force team.  
  
“Oh. My. God,” she breathed.  
  
A woman in a blue security uniform touched Mary-Sue’s arm. “You’re Ikari’s intern, yes?”  
  
“Yeah, what about it?” Mary-Sue responded.  
  
“Here.” The woman pressed a piece of paper into Mary-Sue’s hand.  
  
Mary-Sue looked at the paper. “This is a coffee order.”  
  
“Well spotted,” the woman said, looking down her nose at Mary-Sue. “Off you trot.”  
  
“You want me to _go for coffee_?”  
  
“Some time today, if you can manage it,” the woman said. “You do _know_ how to go for coffee, don’t you?”  
  
“Of course I know how to do it!”  
  
“Well, then,” the woman said. “If it’s not _too_ much trouble?”  
  
  
  
When Mary-Sue returned with the coffee, the G-Force team turned as one to stare at her. She stopped in her tracks.  
  
“You gonna bring that over, or what?” G-2 asked.  
  
_Oh. My. God_ , Mary-Sue told herself. _This is G-Force’s coffee order! I’m bringing the coffee to G-Force!_

 

“Right away!” she said brightly, and stepped forward.  
  
She handed around the coffee, managing to brush the Commander’s gloved fingers with her own as she gave him his drink.  
  
_Oh. My. God. Those eyes!_ In the privacy of her own thoughts, Mary-Sue squealed.  
  
“What the hell is this?” G-2 exclaimed, holding his coffee cup away from him as though it contained poison.  
  
“Gah!” G-1 said. “This isn’t green tea!”  
  
“It isn’t hot chocolate, either,” G-3 said.  
  
G-4 and G-4 were removing the lids from their drinks and sniffing appreciatively.  
  
“Don’t drink it!” the Commander snapped. “We don’t know what it is!”  
  
Mary-Sue let out a squeak as the female security officer grabbed her arm. “ _Explain_ ,” the woman snarled.  
  
“What?” Mary-Sue protested. “Hey, that hurts!”  
  
“The drinks!” the security officer insisted.  
  
“They were all really dumb orders!” Mary-Sue said. “Green tea, black coffee! Who drinks that stuff? Pumpkin **spice** lattes are _way_ cooler, so that’s what I got!”  
  
“Good grief!” G-2 said. “You’re either the most inept Spectra spy in the Galaxy or the most ridiculous excuse for an intern I’ve ever met in my life.”  
  
Mary-Sue burst into tears.  
  
“Somebody get her out of here,” the G-Force Commander sighed.  
  
In Mary-Sue’s experience, bursting into tears usually resulted in her parents relenting and giving her whatever she wanted.  
  
In this instance, it resulted in Mary-Sue being hustled out of the room by uniformed officers, being forced to undergo a retina scan and identity document check and then being sent home with instructions not to return to the ISO Tower.  
  
When Mary-Sue got her phone back, she posted to all her friends that G-Force were really dumb and mean and that she would never, ever try for a career in Public Relations, which totally sucked.  
  
Then she painted her fingernails black and listened to _Evanescence_ while angsting over the injustices of life.


	40. Bradbury's Jar #305 - Harvest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You just had to go there, didn't you, Princess?

 

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" Princess' scream tore through the early-morning calm of Camp Parker.  
  
Mark slammed his tea mug down on the table and transformed as he ran toward the sound. Jason was on his heels as Mark flung the door open and the two of them raced around to the rear of the G-Force accommodation building.  
  
"Oh, God, I think I'm going to be sick!" Princess wailed. She threw herself into Mark's arms and he stood, bemused and still full of adrenaline, uncertain as to what he should do next.  
  
He settled for awkwardly patting his team-mate on the shoulder. "Uh..." he ventured carefully. "Princess, are you okay?"  
  
"They're hideous!" Princess said into Mark's chest.  
  
"Whaff's chineouff?" Jason asked.  
  
Mark turned his head to the right to see Jason, in full battle gear with a mouthful of toothpaste.  
  
"Whaff?" Jason demanded. "I waff bwuffhing mah feeff!" He walked over to a planter and spat. "Princess screamed," he pointed out. "I reacted."  
  
Mark took a deep breath and waited for his heart to slow down from its frantic fight-or-flight state.  
  
"Keyop," he said, "I don't suppose you can explain..."  
  
Keyop, who was standing in the garden with the top half of what appeared to be some kind of polymer box in his hands, bore the look of the perennially put-upon.  
  
"I was just about to **harvest** worm castings for the veggie patch when Princess came out and asked me what I was doing. I needed to feed the worms, so I took the lid off to put the vegetable scraps in. I didn't _ask_ her to look."  
  
Later that day, the words, **'KEYOP'S WORM FARM - KEEP OUT - PRINCESS, THIS MEANS YOU'** were painted on the side of the composting unit.

 


	41. Bradbury's Jar #306 - Possum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse at what life might be like for the ones left behind.

I remember crying when Fa died. I remember I cried, not so much because I was sad, but because my mother was so sad, and I felt awkward because at first, I felt nothing. I realised, then, what a horrible person I must be, to not cry at the news that my father was dead, and I cried.  
  
"Those poor children," people said in hushed tones, "to have barely known their father."  
  
But in reality, I was no worse off than most of my friends and many of the children in our village. Our fathers had been conscripted when we were small and when they came back for brief, infrequent visits, they were strangers with whom we associated presents, awkward embraces, questions about how we were doing at school and then our mothers weeping when, inevitably, they left again.  
  
Before the war with the Federation, my father used to come home once a month, but they said the Federation was big and aggressive. They had powerful weapons and they wanted the Empire for their own. In three years, Fa made only four visits home that I knew of. I had two younger brothers, and mother was pregnant again when the news came back that father had been killed in action.  
  
Against G-Force, they said.  
  
There was no shame in that, they said.  
  
Not many people could go up against G-Force and make it out in one piece, they said.  
  
Isha's father came home. He came home on crutches, since half his right leg was gone. The village pooled its funds to try and buy a new cyber-leg for Isha's father but there wasn't enough money and in the end, Isha's father said to save it for something useful. I asked Isha what it was like to have a father and she said he was sad all the time and drank a lot of barley liquor which made him smell funny. My mother and the other women spoke about Isha's mother in whispers and gave her pitying looks, as though Isha's family were worse off than ours, and yet my father was dead, and Isha's father was alive.  
  
There was more talk in the market place about the war in that summer after Fa died than there had ever been before.  
  
Ia-Mog, who had been elected and re-elected Headman for as far back as I could remember, stood up by the well one day and spoke. The grown-ups gathered around and Ma left off shopping for dried fruit and drifted over to listen. I followed with my youngest brother Feilin clutching at my hand. Goren, who was four years younger than me, carried Ma's basket. Ma herself was getting bigger and bigger with the baby Fa had left her with and had developed a tendency to stand with one hand at her back. It ached, she said, and pained her now and then.  
  
Mog waited for everyone to calm down, then he started talking about how we came to this world to escape the worst of the troubles on the motherworld, and how we'd paid our dues and done our best. It was pretty boring, and my brothers started fidgeting.  
  
I lost track of what the _Ia_ was saying, as Feilin tried to undo the string on my pinafore and I had to swat him over the ear to make him stop. Then of course he started howling for Ma, and she hissed at me to take him away somewhere, so I dragged him off past the horse trough and sat him down, glowering at him.  
  
"Cry baby," I said.  
  
"Meanie," he told me.  
  
When Ia-Mog stopped talking, everyone cheered and clapped. My mother and Isha's came bustling over, with Isha, her sisters and my other brother in tow.  
  
"Did you hear?" Isha said to me.  
  
"Only Feilin's bellowing," I snarled.  
  
"They're going to build a base here!" Isha breathed. "A real base! And Fa can get a job! There'll be work, and money for the village!"  
  
  
  
It was three months before the first ships started coming. They subsumed Erno's farm and Pegrat's and the old Bru place that nobody had lived in or tended for years. All Pegrat's smallholders had to leave but most of them found work on the construction and things became very different.  
  
Market days were bigger and more crowded. Goods cost more, but there was more money to spend.  
  
As long as you had a job at the base.  
  
Ma, with my newest baby brother, had to make do on the annuity we got from the army. We had never been well off, but we had never been poor before, either. Now I had to keep on mending my hems and darning the boys' socks past the point where Ma would once have consigned our things to the rag bag.  
  
We cut back on everything and I took to saving out the eggs to take to market. The boys were sent berry picking and Ma made preserves.  
  
That was how I came to be walking along the market road with my basket when the soldiers stopped me.  
  
The jeep, which had been coming toward me from the direction of the base, pulled over and a man in uniform got out. "Where are you going with that basket, girl?" he asked.  
  
I kept my distance, wary. "To market," I told him. "Do you want to buy some eggs?"  
  
"I might be buying," he said. "It all depends."  
  
His companions laughed and I felt my unease grow.  
  
"Fifty arns each," I told him, "or two dragei the half dozen."  
  
"Really?" He grinned at me, showing his teeth. "Why don't you get in the jeep with us and we can talk business?"  
  
I took a step backward. "I have to go," I said.  
  
"You don't go anywhere unless I tell you," he said to me, his smile fading. "Come here, girl."  
  
I dropped the basket, turned and ran back the way I had come.  
  
I could hear heavy footfalls behind me, and pushed myself to run faster. Behind me, I heard the jeep engine start and heard the scattering of gravel and mud as the wheels spun on the clay.  
  
The ground was heavy and wet after overnight rain, so I veered onto the road where the footing was better, running blindly, heart pounding, my only thought to escape.  
  
The long white car was upon me before I knew what was happening. I heard the tyres roar against the muddy gravel as the driver tried to brake and saw a big bright shape in front of me. I couldn't stop running in time and sprawled over the bonnet as the car lurched to a halt.  
  
I expected to feel my pursuer's hands on me and cringed.  
  
Instead, nothing happened.  
  
I looked around. The soldier was standing motionless in the road, a few lengths from me, the jeep having stopped as well. Neither my would-be attacker nor his companions were looking at me. Their attention was fixed on the car.  
  
A door opened, and a tall woman stepped out. She was slender, with long pale yellow hair and green eyes, and she wore a suit made of white linen finer than any fabric I'd ever seen before in my life. She was flanked by two other women, one with brown hair, the other with tresses so black they glimmered blue.  
  
"Need I ask what is going on here?" the blonde woman asked.  
  
The soldier who had chased me took a nervous step backward. "Lady Mala," he said, raising his hands. "It was a misunderstanding, nothing more..."  
  
The woman walked over to me. "Are you hurt?" she asked.  
  
"No, ma'am," I whispered.  
  
"Why were you running away?" she asked.  
  
"I... I didn't want to go with him, ma'am. I only wanted to sell the eggs and the jam... Ma's going to be angry with me... I dropped the basket..."  
  
My inquisitor tilted her head slightly so that she could keep me and the soldier in her field of vision. "How old are you?" she asked.  
  
"I'm fourteen, ma'am. N-nearly fifteen."  
  
"Nearly fifteen," she said thoughtfully. "Varya, take charge of her," he said, tossing her head. Her blonde hair shimmered as it moved.  She seemed as grand as a queen, standing there on the muddy road in her splendid white suit.  
  
The brown-haired woman took my arm. "Come," she said, and led me toward the other side of the car.  
  
"That's far enough," the Lady said. "Perhaps it's best that she see."  
  
"See what?" I wondered aloud.  
  
"No," the soldier said, a note of pleading in his voice. "My lady, I swear I meant her no harm!"  
  
"I don't believe you," the Lady said calmly, then her hand seemed to flicker, moving faster than I could see, and there was a sudden bang that made me jump.  
  
The soldier who had chased me folded up and pitched face first into the road. I knew he was dead and not simply playing **possum** from the way he fell. Last summer, our neighbour Affram had asked us to help him butcher a calf after his milch cow had twins. The heifer was to be kept while the bull calf was to be killed.  When Affram put his rifle to the animal’s head and pulled the trigger, it had folded up the same way, knees buckling, collapsing soundlessly onto the ground, never knowing what had happened. One moment, it had been alive. The next, it was meat.  
  
"You!" the Lady was pointing at the two soldiers in the jeep. "Take him back to base and tell your Captain that I will not tolerate any abuse of the locals. These people are citizens of Spectra and will be treated as such. Do I make myself clear?"  
  
"Yes, Lady," the soldiers said, and hurried to obey.  
  
The Lady put her gun away and folded her arms, watching the men drag their comrade's body back to the jeep. The brown-haired woman, the one the Lady called Varya, tapped my arm. "Go fetch your basket, child," she told me.  
  
I did as she bade me, retracing my steps at a jog, steering well clear of the jeep and the men.  
  
All but three of the eggs were broken, but the preserves had fared better: only two of the eight jars had been cracked. I brought the wreckage back to Varya.  
  
"How much money would you have made from this?" Varya asked me.  
  
"About twenty dragei, clear," I answered. Ma and I had worked it out at the kitchen table.  
  
"Your parents?" Varya prompted.  
  
"Fa died two seasons back," I recounted. "We get a pension from the Motherworld. Ma has the holding. My brothers and I do what we can, but there's the new baby, so we're behind."  
  
"The baby," Varya said. "Your father's?"  
  
I gaped at her, taken aback. "Yes," I managed to say. "He came home on a visit just before he was killed. They said it was G-Force."  
  
The Lady turned her head at that and looked at me in such a way that I flinched away, afraid of her anger. "Always G-Force," she said, her voice a soft growl.  
  
"What's your name, girl?" Varya asked me, her hand resting gently but firmly on my shoulder.  
  
"It's Zira, ma'am," I said.  
  
"And your family?"  
  
"My mother is Shemma, my brothers Goren, Feilin and the baby Thoren, after Fa. We're smallholders under Ia-Mog."  
  
The Lady held out one elegant hand with some money. "For the goods you lost," she said.  
  
"It's too much, ma'am," I breathed. There were at two bills in her hand, both of them unfamiliar to me, but it was obvious that this was only because the denomination was larger than anything I'd held in my hand before.  
  
"It is not," she said. "Take it home to your mother. Go now."  
  
My own hands shaking, I took the money and the wreckage of my basket, then I did as she bade me, and turned my face for home. I wanted to run, but forced myself instead to walk as quickly as I could.  
  
When I looked back, the big white car had disappeared over the hill, heading for the new base.  
  
When I reached our house, I told Ma everything that had transpired and gave her the money. It was two hundred dragei. Ma was horribly upset at what had nearly befallen me, and vowed not to let me go alone to market again. I was glad of her anger, particularly since it wasn't directed at me, for in truth, I had been afraid of the next time I might be required to venture out again.  
  
The next day, after school, I was about to set off for home with Isha, her sisters and my brothers when I recognised the brown-haired woman standing at the gates. It was Varya.  
  
"Zira!" she hailed me.   
  
I stopped. "Ma'am," I greeted her.  
  
"Lady Mala has given me leave to find an assistant for all the work we have at the base," she said. "I need a resourceful, hard-working girl, and it seems to me that you could do well with us, if your mother can spare you."  
  
My mouth fell open and I could think of nothing to say beyond, "I would have to ask her, ma'am."  
  
"Let us ask her together," Varya said heartily. She had a jeep from the base, and seeing it made my stomach tie itself in a knot. I took an involuntary step backward. "We have many jeeps," was all Varya would say. "Get in." She put the boys in the back, me in the front beside her, and got in herself. The journey from school to our smallholding, usually a good half hour's walking, took only minutes in the jeep, the boys whooping with delight at the wind in their hair.  
  
My mother received Varya with respect and gratitude. Baby Thoren was fretful and grizzling. Ma rocked him and tried to soothe him, with little success. “You saved my daughter from those men,” she said. “I will always be grateful.”  
  
“I came not for your thanks, Shemma,” Varya said, “but to ask you for a favour. I have need of an assistant, and your Zira strikes me as a good candidate. The position pays well, but if you cannot do without her, I will not press you. I know how hard it is for a woman alone.”  
  
To my surprise, my mother’s eyes filled with tears. “It is gracious of you to say so, but I will not say no to Lady Mala. Zira is a good girl and a hard worker. I will not deny her the opportunity to better herself.”  
  
“If the little one is ill,” Varya said, with a nod toward the baby, “send word to the base and I will send a doctor.”  
  
Ma actually burst into tears at that. I felt my own throat tighten and my eyes were suddenly moist. “I will not go if you need me!” I declared.  
  
“Silly girl,” Ma said through her tears. “You will go because I tell you to.”  
  
And so I found myself working at the base as the most junior member of Lady Mala’s personal staff.


	42. Bradbury’s Jar #307 – Puppies and Unicorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artistic expression finds a new outlet.

When he was nothing more than a collection of genetic code waiting to be synthesised, harvested and spliced into a complete human genome, he was Cerebonic Genetic Project Subject K23Y1042.  
  
He retained that file number until he remained one of only two survivors. At that point, the tiny, fragile human embryo in its artificial womb was given the designation Human Cerebonic Subject Nine.  
  
As a joke, one of the technicians had given him a nickname which referred to _Archaeopteroides_ , a genus of Lucavian quasiornithoreptiloid, to which, for those who are familiar with the altricial young of those creatures, he apparently bore something of a resemblance at that stage of his development. Biologists call the Lucavian feathered reptiles “chaeopts” for short. The technician got tired of explaining how to pronounce it, so the name was phoneticised to “Keyop.”

  
He was designed to be the perfect cerebonic recipient, with no risk of rejecting his implants.  
  
He was designed to be the perfect warrior.  
  
He was designed – albeit unintentionally – with an overbite and a speech impediment that made him almost incomprehensible. (We managed to fix that with surgery and intensive speech therapy as soon as he was old enough.)  
  
We never expected him to be an artist.  
  
Keyop could draw. Keyop could paint. Keyop could sculpt and render. Keyop’s eidetic memory combined with his exceptional eye-hand coordination meant that he could reproduce anything he saw in any medium he chose to use.  
  
Keyop doesn’t know that I’ve saved virtually every painting, drawing and piece of artwork he ever brought home from school.  
  
His job as G-4 coupled with his coursework for school means that he doesn’t have an awful lot of time to indulge in art.  
  
So when the team psychologist suggested that a mural in the team’s ready room at Center Neptune might be a nice way to personalise the space and give Keyop an outlet for his artistic talent, I agreed and immediately signed off on a requisition for primer, low-odour acrylic paint and sundry other supplies.  
  
Which was what brought me on a rare visit to the G-Force ready room, where I stood staring at a pastel vista of kittens, baby seals, **puppies and unicorns** with stars and fluffy clouds.  
  
On reflection, maybe I should have retained a right of veto over the design.  
  
“What…” I began.  
  
“It’s Dadaism,” Keyop said, with that smug look that children get when they’ve figured out a way to outsmart an adult.  
  
“What…” I began again.  
  
“Anti-art,” Keyop said.  
  
“Anti…”  
  
“Art,” Keyop finished helpfully.  
  
I closed my mouth and refrained from taking a deep breath. (Low-odour acrylic paint still smells, especially in a confined space like the rooms in Center Neptune.) My mind raced as I tried to remember what Dadaism was.  
  
“I see,” I said. “Yep, that’s pretty subversive all right. Don’t forget to sign it!” I turned on my heel and walked away.  
  
“What…?” I heard Keyop say as I stepped through the hatchway.  
  
I’m delegating the resolution of this one to Dr McCall and the psychology team.  
  
Or possibly Jason and a few cans of matte white.


	43. Bradbury’s Jar #308 - Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason does something out of character.

Jason woke up with a start to the sound of a snore and a feeling of shock and mortification at the realisation that he was the one doing the snoring.  
  
Guiltily, he glanced around and was relieved to find that he was alone in the spacious living room that made up part of the G-Force quarters at Camp Parker.  
  
He stretched and yawned, caught the magazine that was sliding off his lap and hunted around for the remote before using it to switch off the big-screen 3V unit.  
  
Three things were apparent:  
  
One: he must have been tired to fall asleep in the middle of a motoring show  
  
Two: the motoring show must have been kind of boring; and  
  
Three: he could murder a cup of coffee around about now.  
  
Coffee notwithstanding, Jason made a point of tidying the magazines and placing the 3V remote neatly on top of them on the coffee table. Princess had read her male colleagues the proverbial riot act about keeping things neat and while she was the second-smallest member of the team in terms of physicality, she was quite possibly – to Jason’s mind, at least – the most terrifying, especially when she got that determined green blaze going on with her eyes. (Either Mark was the bravest man in the Milky Way Galaxy, or love really did make fools of us all. Jason suspected the latter.)  
  
_Coffee time!_  
  
Jason stretched again and strolled into the kitchen, which – to Tiny’s credit – was nearly always immaculately clean and tidy. Tiny loved cooking and he liked a clean work area. His room might be a mess and he might leave cushions scattered haphazardly around on the sofa, but Tiny Harper kept his kitchen as neat as a pin. For this at least, Jason was grateful. Tiny’s food was hardly _haute cuisine_ , but that was fine by Jason. Tiny liked protein and lots of it. He was by all accounts a master when it came to seafood, but he could also grill a mean steak. Lately, Tiny had been focussing on healthy eating, which was a bit weird, really, but Jason supposed he could get used to it.  
  
Mark – the main offender when it came to untidiness – only ever set foot in the kitchen to make tea or pour himself a bowl of cereal. The G-Force Commander had been known to burn the odd slice of toast or attempt (with mixed results) to boil eggs, but as a general rule, the domestic sciences were a closed book to Mark.  
  
Princess could cook simple meals but tended to rely on pre-packaged stuff and salads. She was capable enough to assist Tiny if he needed a hand but generally if Princess was serving up a meal, Jason reached for the ketchup.  
  
For his part, Keyop was good at eating. The youngest member of the G-Force team could pack away a phenomenal amount of food and turn it all into energy. Keyop on a sugar high could make hardened career ISO officers turn pale and find an excuse to flee.  
  
Jason himself quite enjoyed cooking as and when the mood took him. He was particularly fond of Italian-style food and had mastered such basics as spaghetti Bolognese and Lasagne.  
  
As Jason reached for the coffee canister to load up the coffee-maker, his nostrils flared and he grimaced at the strong smell of fish.  
  
A long-time hater of seafood (largely due to the smell) he wrinkled his nose in disgust and cast around to find the source of the offending odour.  
  
Oddly, one of Orion’s food bowls was on the kitchen floor, but Orion was off-world on a search and rescue mission with one of the senior canine handlers.  
  
Jason opened the cupboard which held the garbage bin and almost gagged.  
  
“What the heck?” he muttered.  
  
Lying atop the usual kitchen refuse was an empty can. It was about an inch high and maybe two-and-a-half inches across and it bore the slogan, _Fancy **Feast**_.  
  
To Jason’s way of thinking, it was neither fancy, nor a feast.  
  
_Wait a second_ … Fancy Feast, wasn’t that a brand of…?  
  
Jason closed the cupboard door, drew breath and bellowed, “KEYOP! Get in here!”  
  
A moment later, Keyop appeared, scratches on his arms, radiating an air of helpful innocence that was entirely without credence.  
  
“Where is it?” Jason demanded.  
  
“Where’s what?” Keyop hedged, wide-eyed.  
  
Jason sniffed again. “Is that _cat pee_ I can smell?”  
  
A look of panic crossed Keyop’s face. “Uh… Look, Jason, it was a stray and it was all thin and everything, and… and…”  
  
Jason leaned back against the kitchen counter and closed his eyes.  
  
“Keyop,” he said, “how old is it?”  
  
“It’s just a kitten!” Keyop wailed, on the verge of tears.  
  
“Okay. Let’s… let’s get a cardboard box and get it over to Sergeant Pryor. I know she’s a dog trainer but she’ll have an idea what we should do for it. Where’d you find it?”  
  
“Near the café,” Keyop said. “How’d you know I didn’t find it here?”  
  
“The cat food,” Jason said. “You had to have brought it with you.”  
  
“Oh,” Keyop said. “I’ll go get Fluffy.”  
  
When Keyop returned with a cardboard box that yowled, growled and shook, Jason began to question Keyop’s definition of ‘kitten.’  
  
  
  
Two hours later, covered in scratches and cat hair, having taken an antihistamine to combat the itchy eyes and runny nose – and Jason now knew he was allergic to cats – Jason folded his arms and contemplated the happy animal purring in Keyop’s arms.  
  
“Fluffy” (and there was a misnomer if ever there was one!) had been de-wormed, de-flead, de-loused and rewarded with treats. He now had a collar and a microchip and an appointment had been made with Orion’s veterinarian for de-sexing as well.  
  
Keyop had finally accepted that he couldn’t keep an animal at the apartment for any number of reasons, but had been mollified when Sergeant Pryor agreed that Fluffy (seriously? Fluffy?) could stay at Camp Parker. The cat would be trained (who knew you could train a cat?) and ‘conditioned,’ (whatever that meant) and Keyop could treat it as a pet whenever G-Force was in residence.  
  
“Gee, thanks, Jason,” Keyop said again. “I can’t believe you helped me get a pet of my own!”  
  
“Yeah, well, don’t go telling people,” Jason warned. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”  
  
“Okay,” Keyop said with a grin. “It’ll be our secret!”  
  
Jason shook his head and left the Animal Services section in search of a shower. _Keyop had better keep his mouth shut_ , he mused as he headed back toward the G-Force quarters. If there was one thing he didn’t need, it was for people to start thinking he was a nice person.  
  



	44. Bradbury's Jar #309 - Famine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spectra follows up a lead.

Mala finished reading the thin sheaf of papers and sighed as she leaned back in the antique _chaise longue_ she occupied. As had become the case of late, it was either a feast or a **famine** where the comms hackers were concerned.  
  
As quickly as Spectra’s operators hacked into the ISO’s communications feeds, those damned eighth-generation Zark-series AIs would detect them and lock them out.  
  
Spectra had tried very hard to infiltrate Quanto Tobor Laboratories, but where security was concerned, QTL left the ISO in the shade. The ISO was a government agency fighting a defensive war. QTL, on the other hand, had shareholders’ money to protect.  
  
It was damned-nigh impossible to steal a Zark unit. The confounded things were programmed to self-destruct if they were compromised in any way, and so far, Spectra had been unable to find away around the failsafe.  
  
Spectra had attempted to develop its own AIs to counter the Zark obstacle, but the results had been less than inspiring. Zoltar’s scientists had failed utterly at reproducing the lightning-fast and almost intuitive processes of the Zark series and the one time they’d come close, by way of copying the patterns of a human brain across into a robot, the damned thing had let its emotions run away with it, fell in love with its target and betrayed Spectra!  
  
Zoltar had triggered the failsafe and destroyed the Lucy unit, but it seemed Galaxy Security had salvaged enough of the thing’s brain that the ISO was now able to recognise certain telltale patterns in Spectra’s cyber-attacks, which made gathering intelligence more and more difficult.  
  
Mala had resorted to using human hackers. She wasn’t particularly fussy. She had recruited (for a given value of ‘recruited’) individuals from Spectra, Sigma Minor, Urgos, Scorpius, Mir, Aquatica, Lucavia, Riga, Vega, Omeg and even sprung a few recidivists from Alpha-3 in the hope of breaking through the ISO’s dynamic and highly-responsive firewall.  
  
Mala picked up the parsimonious report with its scant information and read through it again.  
  
Wait.  
  
There…  
  
Something she’d seen before, in a previous report.  
  
Mala put the papers down and retrieved her tablet from the other end of the _chaise_. She activated the holo display and entered a search parameter.  
  
“Yes!” she whispered. The same string, repeated several times, seemingly at random, on different channels during the tiny windows of opportunity that Spectra was able to exploit before the Zark units locked them down.  
  
Mala swung her feet off the _chaise_ and stood in a graceful, fluid movement. Zoltar would be pleased to hear her news.  
  
  
  
The hackers fidgeted nervously when the _Imperatur_ himself strode into their work area, purple cape billowing as he moved.  
  
The guards snapped to attention and there was a faint jingle of chains as some of the less-willing team-members moved to see what all the fuss was about.  
  
“It would seem, my friends,” Zoltar said, “that your efforts may be bearing fruit at long last. We have detected a pattern, a code word in Galaxy Security communications, and you will now focus your efforts on finding a solution. The one who solves this puzzle will be rewarded. Any whose efforts seem… _less than wholehearted_ will answer to me… _personally_.”  
  
Mala stepped forward. “Your assignments are being transmitted directly to your work stations. You will put all your efforts into uncovering the purpose of and all other information relating to Project ‘Eludium Q-36.’ Do _not_ fail us. Hail Spectra!”  
  
There was a mixed chorus of, “Hail Spectra,” with varying degrees of enthusiasm.  
  
  
  
Six weeks later…  
  
“ _Duck Dodgers… in the twenty fourth, and a half… CEN-tur-eeeee!”_  
  
“This?” Mala demanded with an angry gesture at the 3V projection. “ _This_ is Project Eludium Q-36? A _cartoon_?”  
  
“I fear it is so, my lady,” Doctor Kaydo, the head of the cyber-intelligence section, bowed low in apology. “We have verified and re-verified. The Eludium Q-36 string appears to have been… um….”  
  
“Appears to have been _what_?” Zoltar demanded.  
  
“Bait, my lord,” Kaydo said, cringing. “It was designed to attract our attention and lure us into wasting resources on a puzzle with no solution but a… a prank, sire. I am sorry! I abase myself! I did my best!” Kaydo grovelled on the floor before the throne.  
  
“Get out of my sight,” Zoltar sighed. “Go!” As Kaydo scuttled out of the throne room, propelled by sheer terror, Zoltar leaned on the gilded arm of the throne. “Whoever did this must be a master of misdirection. I should very much like to destroy whoever it was but at the same time, I must admire their ingenuity. If only I had this person working for me!”  
  
Mala refrained from saying anything. Perhaps where ISO data was concerned, **famine** was better than feast after all.  
  
  
  
“That’s lunch you owe me, Jase,” Keyop declared, puffing out his chest. “I _told_ you I could tie up Zoltar’s hackers for a month, and Counter Intelligence says it took ‘em _six weeks_!”  
  
“Okay, squirt,” Jason said with a grin. “You win this one. Lunch it is, any place you want.”  
  
“ _And_ ice cream!” Keyop said.  
  
“And ice cream,” Jason agreed.  



	45. Bradbury's Jar #310 - Expert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chief Anderson is pretty sure he doesn't actually HATE art, as such... at least he was until this morning.

The mail had been delivered and Princess stood beside Gunnery Sergeant McAllister’s desk with the card in her hand. “It’s an invitation to the charity opening of the Lucas Keyes exhibition, Chief. I know you won’t want to go. You hate art.”  
  
“Maybe I don’t want to go to a gallery opening,” Security Chief Anderson argued, “but it doesn’t necessarily follow that I hate art.”  
  
Anderson’s liaison officer was seized with a sudden coughing fit, while Gunnery Sergeant McAllister maintained a stony countenance.  
  
Anderson folded his arms. “Something to share, Colonel?”  
  
Lieutenant Colonel Alberta Jones paused in the act of opening an internal mail envelope. “I think you can safely decline this one – or better yet, send Deputy Chief Galbraith instead.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what you found so funny a second ago,” Anderson said.  
  
“All right, let’s face it, sir,” Jones said, “you aren’t exactly a fan when it comes to art.”  
  
"That doesn’t mean I hate it,” Anderson persisted. “I just don’t like it as much as you do. I know you two like art,” he recalled, including both women in his statement. “Not that long ago, both of you were waxing lyrical over that artist... what's his name? Dead guy... liked painting those big, pink, out-of-focus flowers?"  
  
Princess smiled. “That was Monet’s _Waterlilies_. They’re beautiful!”  
  
"That was it." Anderson was fairly certain he was now in with a chance of winning, if not the entire argument, at least a point.  
  
"You were invited to the charity showing of the _Waterlilies_ series when it came to the Center City Art Gallery," Jones recalled. "You said you didn't have time for that nonsense and sent a donation instead."  
  
"It beat standing around in an art gallery staring at out-of-focus flowers."  
  
"See? You hate art."  
  
"I do not _hate_ art!"  
  
"You said, and I quote, that _'this is all just a bunch of pretentious so-called **experts** trying to look intelligent as they analyse the daubings of someone they wouldn't have bothered to spit on until he was dead_.'"  
  
Anderson cleared his throat. "I did?"  
  
"You did.”  
  
Princess studied the invitation. “This artist isn’t dead yet. Does it still count?"  
  
Anderson could guess what was coming. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, Al. Tell me what I said about contemporary art."  
  
"You said it was another bunch of pretentious so-called **experts** trying to be clever by turning bad interior decorating into some form of half-arsed social commentary."  
  
"Oh... yes, I did say that, didn't I?"  
  
"I thought it was rather incisive, actually."  
  
Anderson blinked as his brain registered a sudden change of direction. "You did?"  
  
“Yes. Well done, you.” Jones turned to Gunnery Sergeant McAllister. “Please pass the invitation on to Deputy Chief Galbraith. Mrs Galbraith is quite fond of contemporary art and I’m sure they’ll enjoy it. I’ll be in my office if anybody needs me.” She strode away at a brisk pace, leaving Anderson puzzling over the conversation.  
  
Princess handed the invitation card over to McAllister. “I’m going to grab some coffee,” she said, and headed for the executive kitchen.  
  
“Gunny,” Anderson ventured, “do I hate art?”  
  
McAllister shrugged. “Hard to say, sir. You know, it was just around the time I got my stripes I met a lady who could turn an argument around like that. I never could tell which way was up when she wanted to make a point. Easiest thing was to shut up, listen and nod a lot.”  
  
“So, how did that work out for you?” Anderson asked.  
  
“I married her,” McAllister said.  
  
“Not helping, Gunny,” Anderson said, and stalked back into his own office.  



	46. Bradbury’s Jar #311 - Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The members of G-Force engage in a spot of fund-raising.

The banner read, “DUNK THE EAGLE: 3 BALLS FOR $10!”  
  
“Hey!” Mark protested. “He isn’t allowed to do this! Is he— aaaagh!”  
  
The rest of Mark’s words were lost in the heavy clunk and rattle of the mechanism and the loud splash of water that accompanied G-1’s plunge into the tank.  
  
“Jason,” Princess said, “that’s mean.”  
  
“I got two I haven’t even pitched yet,” Jason pointed out as Mark – in full birdstyle – clambered out of the tank and considered what was clearly going to be a very temporary perch.  
  
“Let me put it this way,” Princess said, “for every ball you throw at that target from this point on, I will buy THREE when it’s your turn. You know I won’t miss.”  
  
Jason considered this, handed the balls back to the attendant and fished in his pocket for a twenty dollar bill. “A donation to the cause,” he said.  
  
“Thank you, sir,” the volunteer said with a smile, and tucked the money into a box.  
  
Mark clambered back onto the seat and waited for the next customer to take a try at Dunking the Eagle.  
  
“If it wasn’t for the ISO **Legacy** fund,” he grumbled, “you’d be a dead man, Jason.”  
  
Chuckling, Jason left the stall to see if Keyop had managed to consume enough candy floss to fly without his G-Force gear.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have this thing called Legacy Australia which is a charity founded by ex-servicemen to provide support to the families of deceased service personnel. It's been around since WW1 and it is a very worthy cause.


	47. Bradbury’s Jar #312 - Flux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This follows on directly from where 'Castling' ended. The G-Force team returns to Earth after taking a break on Planet Albion.

  
  
Mark stood in the doorway and surveyed the G-Force team’s new domain.  
  
“Hey! Check this out!” Jason called. Mark walked over to where Jason was standing. “You’re moving up in the world, Skipper.”  
  
“Whoa,” Mark said. “My own office? No more cubicle?”  
  
“ _We_ still get cubicles,” Jason pointed out. “It seems _you’re_ finally getting the recognition you deserve.” Jason leaned back against the wall next to the door marked, ‘G-1: Commanding Officer.’ “Well?” he prompted. “Are you going to stand there gaping, or are you going to open the door and take a look inside?”  
  
“I’ve never had my own office before,” Mark said.  
  
“For crying out loud!” Jason turned, operated the door handle and shoved the door open. He peered inside. “Okay, so it isn’t exactly huge.” He stood aside and made a sweeping _entree_ gesture with one arm.  
  
Mark stepped past Jason and looked around. The G-Force Commander’s office was approximately 8 feet by 8 feet and was furnished with a desk, chairs, return and credenza. There was a white board on one wall and a large 3V unit on the other. “Not bad,” Mark said. “I guess I could get used to it… as long as I leave the door open. I mean, it’s gonna be weird doing my reports without you guys giving me grief.”  
  
“Oh, trust me, Commander, sir, we can continue to give you grief if that’s what you want,” Jason said with a grin.  
  
“Let’s check out the rest of this place,” Mark said, wisely choosing not to rise to Jason’s bait.  
  
The locker room was standard ISO-issue and held no surprises. When Mark and Jason returned to the main area, they found Princess directing a pair of storemen in the precise arrangement of a modular sofa.  
  
“This area used to be set up with six office cubicles,” Princess explained. “Two were removed and the extra space is going to be a staff lounge! Just a little more to the left – that’s perfect! Now for the 3V unit!”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” the storemen mumbled, and trudged away to fetch the 3V unit.  
  
“Looks like you’ve got this, Princess,” Mark said.  
  
“Yeah,” Jason said. “We’ll get out of your way. You want us to bring you back a hot chocolate?”  
  
“That’d be great, thanks, Jase,” Princess said, giving the potted aspidistra a hard look. “You,” she told it, “need to be in the other corner!”  
  
Mark and Jason made good their escape before Princess could rope them in to interior decorating duties.  
  
  
  
By the time Gunnery Sergeant McAllister arrived, Tiny had stocked the kitchen while Keyop had purloined Mark’s chair (unlike the ergonomic chairs assigned to the rest of the team, Mark’s had leather upholstery and arms) and was sitting in the seat, using one foot against the corner of his cubicle partitioning to spin the chair around in an attempt to see if he could make it go fast enough to make him throw up.  
  
Given that the Whirlwind Pyramid had never had this effect on any of the team, (Jason’s migraine episode notwithstanding) Princess felt it was safe to let Keyop discover by himself that it wasn’t going to work.  
  
Miles McAllister paused in the doorway long enough to take in the scene, then squared his shoulders and strode into the office. He put down the carton of stationery items he’d brought with him from the ISO Tower, took a breath and said, “Good afternoon, sirs.” McAllister didn’t raise his voice. He rarely needed to.  
  
The chair holding Keyop slowed and spun to a stop. The chair’s occupant had the grace to look abashed. “Hi, Gunny,” he said.  
  
“Hi, Gunny,” Princess said. “Would you prefer a maidenhair fern or a spider plant?”  
  
“Thank you, Miss Anderson,” McAllister rumbled. “I’d prefer a clean desk, if it’s all the same to you.”  
  
“Oh, okay,” Princess said. She considered the carton of potted greenery. “Frankly, I think I might send the spider plants back. They kinda remind me of those carnivorous flowers from Planet Spectra.”  
  
“Ferns are always a safe bet,” McAllister said, unpacking the contents of the carton.  
  
“At least until Zoltar figures out how to weaponise them, yeah,” Princess said. She positioned a maidenhair fern on her desk and pondered the niceties of the visual balance. “Where’s the Chief – I mean, Director Anderson?”  
  
“He was calling by the base hospital,” McAllister said. “Looking in on Lieutenant Colonel Jones and Lieutenant Falcone, no doubt.”  
  
“Of course!” Princess wrung her hands together. “I feel awful, Gunny! I haven’t been to see either one of them!”  
  
“You only made planetfall from Albion last night, ma’am,” McAllister pointed out. “Say, why don’t you put a ribbon around a couple of those spider plants and give them as get-well gifts?”  
  
“Gunny, you’re a genius!” Princess exclaimed. “That’s exactly what I’ll do! Oh, but I don’t have any ribbon!”  
  
“There’s some twine waiting to go to recycling in the security office,” McAllister said. “I’m sure you could do something with that.”  
  
“I rest my case,” Princess said. “Genius!”  
  
  
  
Mark and Jason were on their way back from their coffee, tea and hot chocolate run when they encountered Princess hurrying along the corridor carrying a cardboard carton with spider plants in it.  
  
“Hey!” Mark called. “Don’t you want your hot chocolate?”  
  
“Oh, thanks, Mark,” Princess said. “Just put it in with the plants.”  
  
“Okay,” Mark said and carefully placed the cup in the carton. “Where are you headed?”  
  
“The hospital,” Princess said. “We’ve been back almost a whole day and I haven’t been to see Al or Terry.”  
  
“Oh, right,” Mark said. “How’re they doing, anyway?”  
  
“Gunny says they’re both recovering well. I wanted to drop by and let them know that we’re thinking of them.”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Mark said. “Tell ‘em we all said hi.”  
  
“Will do!” Princess continued her progress down the corridor.  
  
Mark stood in the corridor clutching the cardboard tray with his tea and watched her leave. He made a point of not sighing as he turned and began walking back toward the new G-Force offices.  
  
“Man, you’re a lost cause!” Jason said. “Why don’t you go with her?”  
  
“I’m not really as friendly with the security staff as Princess is,” Mark hedged. “Besides, I hate hospitals.”  
  
“We all hate hospitals! It doesn’t matter. You’re not going to see the security staff, you’re going to be _supportive_ of _Princess_ ,” Jason pointed out. “Women like it when men are supportive. Trust me. You should go.” Jason grabbed Mark’s arm and hauled, nearly upending the tea. “Let’s move it, flyboy!”  
  
  
  
As Mark and Jason approached the central hub of Seahorse Base, the corridors became busier and busier.  
  
“Geez, we stand out like sore thumbs in our civvies,” Mark observed.  
  
“And it’s different today how, exactly?” Jason asked.  
  
“We don’t usually walk around this part of the base,” Mark pointed out as they negotiated the hub and headed toward the corridor that would take them to the medical centre. “We usually just park the _Phoenix_ and leave via Gate Nine. If we’re going to have our city base here, we’re going to need to fit in.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess you’ve got a point there,” Jason conceded. “We might just have to wear our G-Sec uniforms in future. Totally uncool, but at least we’ll blend in with the crowd. Nobody better ask me to get a haircut,” he added darkly.  
  
“I’m with you on that,” Mark said.  
  
“Of course,” Jason remarked, “the fact that Princess looks amazing in blues would have absolutely nothing to do with–” Jason laughed and ducked the half-hearted swat that Mark aimed at him, managing to keep his coffee upright as he did so.  
  
“Cut it out, Jason,” Mark said. “We’re attracting attention,” he muttered.  
  
“Okay, okay,” Jason said.  
  
  
  
Mark and Jason passed through a manned security checkpoint, then an automated security checkpoint before reaching the reception area of the medical centre. The computerised directory board provided a map display in response to their query and they strolled toward the hospital section.  
  
“What’s happening with the security teams now that Anderson’s resigned as Chief of Staff?” Mark wondered aloud.  
  
“I asked Fran about it,” Jason said. “Basically, the top end of the Executive Suite’s in a state of flux. Anderson’s detail is now technically Galbraith’s; Galbraith’s detail technically belongs to Acting Deputy Kelly and Kelly’s detail should be assigned to Acting Director Levin, but for practical purposes, it’s pretty much a great big steaming mess until the handover period’s completed.”  
  
“Dad said he was getting a new security team,” Mark recalled.  
  
“Yeah, apparently Josh transferred over, and they’re going to recruit a new squad, according to Fran.”  
  
“Fran isn’t transferring over so you can be closer?”  
  
“Nah,” Jason said with a casual wave of one hand. “Staying on the Chief of Staff’s detail’s a way better career move. We’ll still see each other when we’re not on duty, kinda like normal people. _That_ should be a change of pace.”  
  
“Yeah,” Mark said. “I don’t usually associate you and the concept of normality in the same sentence – and don’t try to tell me you didn’t deserve that one.”  
  
“Fair call, Skipper,” Jason said. “I’m pretty sure I’m still ahead on points, though.”  
  
“In your dreams,” Mark said.  
  
  
  
Anderson’s whereabouts were easily discerned since Captain Maxwell was on duty in the corridor outside Lieutenant Colonel Jones’ hospital room.  
  
Mark and Jason exchanged greetings with the security officer and knocked on the door.  
  
“Come in!” a familiar voice called and they complied.  
  
Princess looked up and smiled with genuine pleasure, making Mark’s heart turn a little somersault in his chest.  
  
Alberta Jones was sitting up in the hospital bed and there was a potted spider plant on the nightstand next to a bunch of flowers. Anderson and Princess were occupying the two visitors’ chairs.  
  
“Hello, sirs,” Jones said. “It’s nice of you to drop by.”  
  
“You look a lot better, Al,” Jason said. “Mind you, the last time I saw you, you were covered in blood and bruises, so maybe that isn’t much of a compliment.”  
  
“Thank you,” Jones said. “I must be recovering. It’s incredibly boring in here and Chief Galbraith won’t send over any files for me to work on!”  
  
“Can you imagine what Doctor Kate would say if he did?” Mark pointed out. “The man has a healthy sense of self-preservation if you ask me.”  
  
Anderson stood up. “Time I was going,” he said. “Just be thankful I haven’t swiped the chip out of your palm unit,” he told Jones.  
  
“You’re never going to forgive me for that, are you?” Jones said.  
  
“Oh, I’ve forgiven you,” Anderson said. “I’m just not going to let you forget it, that’s all.”  
  
“I’ll walk back with you,” Mark said.  
  
“Don’t you want to go with Princess to see Terry?” Jason said, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“Oh,” Princess said, “Terry’s in X-Ray at the moment. I left the spider plant in his room with a note. I guess we should get back and finish setting up the new office. Al, as soon as you’re better, we’re having another girls’ night!” she told Jones.  
  
“Not until you’ve had the medical nanites removed!” Anderson reproved. “No alcohol.”  
  
Princess frowned. “We’re allowed to drink alcohol,” she said, “and we’ve got nanites.”  
  
“Not when you’re healing from an injury,” Anderson pointed out.  
  
“I thought that was because of the meds,” Mark said.  
  
“It’s because the nanites have enough work to do repairing your tissues without the extra burden that alcohol places on the system,” Anderson said, automatically going into lecture mode. “The meds and the supplements give the nanites the building blocks they need to do their job. Introducing alcohol to the mix is like putting the brakes on the healing process.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Jones sighed.  
  
“You can cut _that_ out,” Anderson told her. “I’ll see you later.”  
  
  
  
Anderson, Mark, Jason and Princess headed back to the G-Force offices, where Mark discovered that his tea had gone cold. He poured it down the kitchen sink and set about boiling the kettle. Fortunately, Tiny had made sure that Mark’s favourite brand of tea (low-caffeine, organic, from Australia of all places) was in its airtight tin in the cupboard.  
  
When Anderson appeared in search of coffee, Mark turned and leaned back against the counter.  
  
“Y’know,” he said, “when we got back from Albion, I almost expected to find that I’d dreamed our talk and all the news stories and everything, and that I’d find you back behind the big desk.”  
  
“It does seem a little surreal, doesn’t it?” Anderson said, hunting down a coffee mug and checking the settings on the coffee maker.  
  
“What happens now?” Mark asked.  
  
“I guess we get the new office set up and keep kicking Zoltar’s sorry shapeshifting ass,” Anderson said.  
  
“That’s another thing,” Mark said. “I never thought that purple freak could surprise me by getting any freakier, but there it is. He’s even weirder than I thought he was.”  
  
“Zark’s burning the midnight oil trying to find patterns to hand over to the analysts to see if we can pinpoint instances of Zoltar using that ability of his. It opens up a whole new can of worms: if Zoltar can shapeshift, are there other Spectra agents who can do the same thing?”  
  
“If there were,” Mark reasoned, “you’d probably already be dead. Remember how Zark detected the Viper?”  
  
“Yes,” Anderson said. “You’re right. Let’s hope he’s the only one.”  
  
“So darned freaky…” Mark said. The kettle’s automatic cut-out activated with a click and Mark poured hot water into his cup to warm it while Anderson waited for his coffee to brew. “Uh, Dad?”  
  
“Yes, Mark?”  
  
“Have you given any thought to where you’re going to move, now that Galbraith’s the Chief of Staff and he’ll have the big house with all the security and everything?”  
  
“I have to admit, I’ve thought about what I _don’t_ want to do. The idea of going house hunting and dealing with realtors definitely doesn’t appeal to me right now.”  
  
“I was thinking, maybe you should apply for housing at ISO Powell. It’s well-guarded and all the residents have security clearances. I think you’d be safer there than just about any place else. I know you probably don’t like the idea…”  
  
“Actually,” Anderson said, “you could be on to something. You’re right about it being secure, and there’s regular air transport between here and Powell, so the commute doesn’t have to be all that bad… Good idea, Mark. I’ll put in a request today.”  
  
Mark realised his mouth was open and he closed it. “Hold on a sec’.” He pinched the back of his hand. “Ow! Okay, definitely awake.”  
  
“Am I really that bad?” Anderson asked.  
  
“Yeah, you are,” Mark said. “You’re okay, aren’t you? I mean, Zoltar busting up the conference on Albion… it didn’t mess you up too much, did it?”  
  
“I’m dealing with the PTSD,” Anderson said. “It isn’t exactly my idea of fun. A change of scene should help.” Anderson thought for a moment. “Zoltar’s head on a spike would help even more, but apparently they frown on that kind of thing on all the _civilised_ planets these days. With the job change, I should have a little more time on my hands. I really should focus on answering Jason’s questions about his father and try to be more involved in Keyop’s upbringing.”  
  
“Wow,” Mark said. “That all sounds pretty cool. Except for the part about Zoltar’s head on a spike. That’s just gross.”  
  
“Yes, but I have a reputation to maintain.”  
  
“For being gross?”  
  
“For having a mean streak a mile wide, remember?”  
  
“Yeah, about that… it’s not working for me any more, Dad.”  
  
“Yes, but I trust you with my deep dark secret. If everybody knew that I’m only human, I’d never get the media off my doorstep – and there’s another advantage to living on-base at Powell. Who’s in charge of housing over there, anyway? Is it anyone I’ve pissed off before?”  
  
“Zark could tell us,” Mark said. Before Anderson could object, Mark had opened a channel on his communicator. “Hey, Zark, you got ears on?”  
  
Zark’s reply was immediate: “ _I certainly have, Mark, and I can tell you that the officer in charge of housing and accommodation at ISO Powell Base is Lieutenant Colonel Ernest Nakamura, who Director Anderson has never met or corresponded with, so he’s unlikely to have annoyed him in the past. ISO Powell’s Commanding Officer is Lieutenant General Anna Mesurier. I believe, Director, that you met General Mesurier at a cocktail party hosted by Chief Conway, back in twenty-one fifty-six. You conversed about ISO budget allocations for approximately seven minutes then parted company._ ”  
  
“At least I don’t _think_ I’ve made any enemies there,” Anderson said.  
  
“ _On the contrary_ ,” Zark said happily, “ _General Mesurier is acquainted with Lieutenant Colonel Jones, who was on the organising committee to set up the Powell Base Community Garden, and since you and Colonel Jones are_ –”  
  
“Yes, I see,” Anderson said. “Zark, you remember that talk we had the other day?”  
  
“ _Yes, sir_.” The robot sounded contrite. “ _Of course. Center Neptune Control, out_.”  
  
“What talk was that?” Mark enquired once he’d closed the comm channel.  
  
“It was about keeping things concise,” Anderson said, staring straight ahead.  
  
Mark found himself smiling as he tipped the water out of his cup, dropped the teabag in and filled the cup with hot water. “You do recall that my father, my mother and you were all spies? You and Cronus trained me to spot evasion when I see it. Zark was about to say something embarrassing, wasn’t he?”  
  
“Look, Mark… There are times when… Things are… Zark’s kind of jumping to conclusions, okay?”  
  
“Yeah, he does that sometimes when he’s trying to emulate human behaviour,” Mark said. He took in Anderson’s apparent discomfiture, added one and one together and came up with the only even prime number known to mathematics.  “You know,” Mark said carefully, as he put the kettle back on its base, “if something were to happen that resulted in Princess and me being in different chains of command, I’d probably be buying a _lot_ of flowers. Maybe kinda like the ones that were in Al’s hospital room.”  
  
Anderson let his breath out in a sigh of defeat. “It’s been less than a week,” he pointed out, “and Al’s still in the hospital. It’s a little early to be breaking out the candles and the violin music, don’t you think?”  
  
“Zark seems to think you’re an item,” Mark pointed out.  
  
“Zark watches too many soaps,” Anderson countered. “Truth is, I don’t know what we are just yet. It’s too soon. We’re definitely friends, and only time will tell if we end up being anything more than that. I’d really like to keep things private for a while. Once I know where we’re headed, I’ll tell you about it, but until then, just let us figure it out on our own, okay?”  
  
“That sounds fair,” Mark said. “I won’t say anything to the others.”  
  
“Thanks,” Anderson said.  
  
“So, are you going to bring her to Thanksgiving dinner?”  
  
“ _Mark_!”  
  
Mark chuckled and reached for a teaspoon to remove the teabag from his cup. “You know,” he said, “if this is the new normal for us, I think I kinda like it.”  



	48. Bradbury’s Jar #313 - Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Naughty List III. Anderson receives a late-night visitor.

The door was locked, but then, locks had never been a problem for the visitor.  
  
The living room was softly illuminated by the lights on the Christmas tree and the only sound was a loud and rhythmic snoring.  
  
Satisfied that nobody was awake, the intruder padded silently across the room.  
  
A burst of sound erupted and the visitor was suddenly flat on his back, pinned to the floor – with something hard digging into his back – by something large, heavy, _hairy_ and very, very noisy.  
  
“AOWROOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr….”  
  
“Orion, leave,” said a voice. “Good boy. Over here. Good dog. Sit. Good boy. Hi, Santa.”  
  
“You…” Santa Claus said, getting to his feet. “Every damned year…” He bent to retrieve his sack and righted it. “What the hell did I land on?” He looked down to find pieces of a plastic nativity set on the floor where he’d landed.  
  
“Sorry,” Anderson said, as he got up from the sofa. “I almost didn’t think you’d show this year.”  
  
“And why wouldn’t I?” Santa demanded. “It’s Christmas!”  
  
“Well, yes,” Anderson conceded as he bent to pick up a couple of shepherds and a donkey, “but I’m not the Chief of Galaxy Security any more. Shouldn’t you be turning Chief Galbraith’s carefully constructed and peer-reviewed belief system on its figurative ear?”  
  
“Oh, you’d like that,” Santa said. “And there’s a point toward the Naughty List for next year, right there. Galbraith’s a Doctor of Psychology. There’s no way he’d be able to see me!”  
  
“So, lucky me,” Anderson said. He put the plastic figures on the coffee table, then retrieved the stable. “I still get Galaxy Security’s annual visit from the anthropomorphic representation of the Holidays.”  
  
“There are worse people to have visits from at this time of night,” said a voice from the sofa.  
  
“Sorry we woke you, Al,” Anderson said.  
  
Alberta Jones stretched and stood up. “Frankly,” she said, “I’d much rather see Santa than, say, the members of the Budget Allocation Committee or the Secretary of Defence.”  
  
“Point,” Anderson said. “I probably wouldn’t have called off the dog if it were any of them.”  
  
“Anyone for tea?” Jones asked. “Santa, would you prefer coffee?”  
  
“As long as there’s a slug of whisky in it,” Santa said.  
  
“ _He_ gets offered coffee?” Anderson challenged.  
  
“He’s working,” Jones pointed out.  
  
As Jones left for the kitchen, Santa chuckled. “Hen-pecked, much?”  
  
“Not particularly,” Anderson said, glaring at the personification of Christmas.  
  
“It’s nice to see that you’re settling down,” Santa said. “When did you acquire the dog?”  
  
“Oh, Orion’s been with the project for almost twenty years,” Anderson said. He continued to pick up the remains of the nativity scene. “We’ve got him for the holidays, and Princess insisted he sleep here because otherwise Keyop stays up all night with him. Only trouble is that he snores.”  
  
Orion grinned and thumped his tail against the floor.  
  
Santa gave the dog a dubious look. He picked up the large red sack he’d dropped on the floor and began removing brightly-wrapped parcels, which he placed under the tree.  
  
“You know,” Santa said, “it’s high time you got that boy a dog of his own.”  
  
Anderson blinked. “Okay, I wasn’t expecting that.”  
  
“Every year,” Santa said, “he asks me for a puppy. Or a seal. Or a baby whale. Look, Dave, you’ve quit the high-pressure job for a… well, marginally less high-pressure job, you’ve found yourself a nice- _ish_ girl and you’ve got the house at ISO Powell with a yard. Don’t you think a dog would complete the picture?”  
  
“A dog…” Anderson echoed.  
  
“Yep,” Santa declared. “Specifically, Keyop asked me for an Australian Kelpie.”  
  
“A what?”  
  
“Kelpie. It’s a herding dog. Energetic, smarter than some humans and extremely loyal. If he can’t have a Kelpie, he wants a Border Collie.” Santa dug in his pocket. “I’ve got a list of reputable breeders right here, along with the Naughty List.” He handed a data strip to Anderson.  
  
Jones returned from the kitchen with a tray containing steaming mugs and a plate of cookies. “Keyop made these,” she said, indicating the slightly-haphazard cookies. “Triple chocolate chip, loaded with sugar and saturated fats.”  
  
“Just the way I like ‘em!” Santa declared, picking up a cookie. He bit into it and chewed. “Excellent!” Once the cookie had been consumed, he accepted a mug of coffee laced with whisky. “That’s the stuff!”  
  
“Wait, Nick… Why do you want me to get a dog?” Anderson asked.  
  
Santa swallowed a deep draught of coffee. “It’s Keyop’s longest-standing Christmas wish,” he said, “and making wishes come true is part of my job description.”  
  
“A dog…” Anderson said again.  
  
“If I remember correctly,” Santa said, “there was a little boy who wanted a puppy once and nagged his parents until they got him one. Some of your happiest memories involve your father and Chester.”  
  
Anderson sighed and picked up the remaining pieces of the nativity set.  
  
Santa reached out and plucked one of the figures from Anderson’s grasp. “This was me, you know,” he said, studying the red-robed mage. “The first-ever Christmas gifts for the most important child ever born. No computer games in those days.” He handed the figure back to Anderson, who set it on the coffee table with the others.  
  
“That explains a lot,” Anderson said. “I always figured you were a wise guy.”  
  
“Very funny,” Santa said. “Never heard _that_ one before!” He withdrew another data strip from his pocket. “Now this,” he said, “is the Naughty List for twenty-one sixty-three. You convinced me that I need to be on side to keep Christmas alive, so all I ask is that you consider getting that kid a dog.”  
  
Santa handed over the strip.  
  
“Okay, Santa,” Anderson said. “I’ll consider it. You do know he already has a part-time cat, right?”  
  
Santa snorted and finished his coffee, then appropriated the remaining chocolate chip cookies. “What the boy really wants is a dog,” he said. He shouldered his sack of gifts. “Well,” he said, “I’d better be going. Got a lot of places to visit, as usual. See you in a year!”  
  
Anderson saw his guest to the door and closed it behind him. The clatter of tiny hooves and the jingling of silver bells faded into the distance.  
  
“A dog?” Jones asked.  
  
“A dog,” Anderson said.  
  
“We’ll make it work somehow,” Jones said. “Dogs are good at relationships. Maybe you’ll learn something.”  
  



	49. Bradbury's Jar #314 - Cycles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keyop is bored.

 

“This is booooooooo-ring!” Keyop sang, his chin in his gloved hands.  
  
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Jason said through clenched teeth. “I noticed already.”  
  
Keyop broke into song: “Why are we waiting? Why is this so boring? I’m growing cobwebs ju-ust si-iiiting here!”  
  
“Cool it!” Mark snapped. He stood and turned to face the youngest member of G-Force. “We’re on a mission. We’re not here to be entertained, and we _don’t_ need a song and dance act from the peanut gallery. Is that clear?”  
  
Keyop shrank back into his seat. “Yes, sir.”  
  
“Good,” Mark said. “I need everyone sharp, no matter how boring it gets, understood?”  
  
There was a ragged chorus of assent from the other occupants of the bridge.  
  
  
  
The G-Force command ship _Phoenix_ hung in empty space, her engines silent, running on battery power only, with all but her most essential systems idle. In the shadow of the asteroid on which the navigational beacon for Hypergate IGF-O-58952 was placed, she would be passed over by all but the most sensitive of scanners.  
  
Like a hunting Owl in the silence of the night, she was still and quiet, waiting patiently for her prey.  
  
Keyop, on the other hand, was anything but.  
  
“Nothing on the scope, Commander G-1, sir!” he announced.  
  
Mark took a deep breath and let it out again. Rising to the bait was clearly what Keyop wanted him to do. Silently, he counted to ten, then he counted to ten again.  
  
“Tactical systems showing nada, Commander boss!” Keyop declared.  
  
Mark considered. What would other, more experienced commanders do?   
  
They wouldn’t shout. A loss of control was as good as a defeat.  
  
“I got a big fat zero, Lieutenant Colonel Hawking, _sir_!” Keyop bellowed.  
  
Just the same, he couldn’t very well ignore Keyop’s… well, it wasn’t exactly insubordination. He _was_ staying sharp and he _was_ obeying orders… just in a really annoying –  
  
“Scope’s still showin’ a whoooooooole lotta nothin’, Mister Boss Man!”  
  
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Mark said, keeping his tone as calm and as cool as he didn’t feel. “Well done. Continue with sitreps at twenty-second intervals.”  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
“Your diligence is commendable,” Mark said, keeping his expression stony and his voice level. He stared straight ahead, aware that the others were watching him. “Carry on, Mister Anderson.”  
  
“I… uh… Got nothing, Mark,” Keyop said in small voice.  
  
“Keep up the good work,” Mark said. He was definitely going to have to remember this particular tactic for future reference.  
  
“Still – wait!” Keyop’s voice rose in pitch. “The hypergate’s powering up. Hyperchute terminus forming.”  
  
“Tiny,” Mark said. “Be ready to spin the engines up. Jason–”  
  
“Ready, Commander,” Jason said, his tone crisp.  
  
“Warp signature detected,” Princess reported.  
  
“On main screen,” Mark said.  
  
“There it is!” Tiny said. “An Urgosian corsair!”  
  
“Keyop, report on the incoming ‘chute.”  
  
“Wormhole stabilising,” Keyop said. “Transponder signature indicates a Rigan freighter, the _Crimson Bird_.”  
  
“If the space pirates follow their usual pattern,” Princess said, “they’ll hit the freighter just as the ‘gate **cycles** down and the hyperchute terminus collapses.”  
  
“Tiny,” Mark said. “Bring the main engines on line. Jason, as soon as that corsair locks weapons onto the freighter, take ‘em out.”  
  
“With pleasure,” Jason said.  
  
“The corsair has lock!” Keyop cried.  
  
“Lock confirmed,” Princess said.  
  
Jason didn’t wait for a firing solution. “Which means that we have sufficient cause to do _this_ ,” he said, and pressed the red button over which his finger had been hovering.  
  
Three rockets flew free from the _Phoenix_ and struck the Urgosian pirate vessel amidships.  
  
The _Phoenix_ ’s targeting computer belatedly offered up weapons lock.  
  
Mark opened a comm channel. “ _Crimson Bird_ , this is G-Force. We just took care of your welcoming committee. Have a nice day.” He closed the channel.  
  
“Search and Rescue are on their way,” Tiny reported, watching as lifeboats popped from emergency hatches like metallic corks around the stricken corsair.  
  
Mark’s smile was grim. “Nice work, everybody.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the Phoenix has a time drive (yes, canon calls it 'time warp') many other spacegoing vessels do not, since buying and maintaining a warp engine is a tad on the expensive side. Star ships which lack a time drive can use hypergates, which generate stable wormholes (or 'hyperchutes') which they can traverse to cross vast interstellar distances. 
> 
> It isn't just a jump to the left, and there is no pelvic thrusting involved, not on reputable starships anyway. I mean, if you want to sign up for one of 'those' sorts of interstellar cruises, feel free, but make sure you get all your shots first.


	50. Bradbury's Jar #315 - Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark needs help.

“Jason! You have to help me!”  
  
Jason glanced up from cleaning his gun, confirmed that the chamber was empty (again) and held the weapon up to sight along the barrel. The readout from the head-up display in his visor confirmed that everything was in order.  
  
“Ya think?” he responded.  
  
“I don’t know who else to ask!” Mark hissed.  
  
“Okay,” Jason said. “I’ll bite. I could use a laugh.”  
  
Mark drew Jason aside, glanced across the hangar to ensure his team-mates were busy with their vehicles and kept his voice down. “I don’t know what to get Princess for Christmas!”  
  
Jason gave the stock of the gun a swipe with the cloth. “Is that all?”  
  
“Whaddaya mean ‘is that all?’ Jason! It’s important!”  
  
“Mark, it’s a Christmas gift. It isn’t as though the fate of the galaxy’s riding on what you get Princess for Christmas.”  
  
The look on Mark’s face suggested otherwise.  
  
Jason sighed and relented. “Okay. Let me finish up here, then we’ll take a walk and discuss your little problem.”  
  
Mark glowered but refrained from arguing.  
  
Once Jason’s gun had been cleaned, reloaded and holstered, Mark and Jason triggered their transformers and headed for the door.  
  
“We just have to head up to the office!” Mark called out. “Back soon!”  
  
Princess waved absently without looking up from her galacticycle.  
  
“Can I come with you?” Keyop called, but Mark had hit the door closure control and broken into a run before Keyop could follow.  
  
“Not so fast, Keyop,” Tiny said. “You still have to show Suzie that sensor that tested faulty on your buggy, and she’s still inspecting the missile bay doors on the _Phoenix_!”  
  
“Slave driver!” Keyop complained.  
  
  
  
  
“What’s the big deal about a Christmas present?” Jason asked. “You usually get everybody gift vouchers.”  
  
“I know,” Mark said. He had slowed to a walk and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I just… this year, I wanted to do something a little more thoughtful.” He pressed the face of his bracelet against the sensor plate beside the big steel blast doors, which slid open in response. “I can’t just come out and tell Princess I care about her, but I need to let her know, you know?”  
  
Mark and Jason stepped through the doors and headed for the elevators.  
  
“I know,” Jason said. “It’s tough. Regulations stink.”  
  
“Regulations are in place for good reasons,” Mark just had to say. “I’d just like to be able to do something nice for Princess this holidays, that’s all, and the trouble is, I really don’t have any idea what to do. You’ve got a girlfriend. You seem to be getting along just fine. I figured you might know what I should get Princess for Christmas.”  
  
“Hoo boy!” Jason pressed the elevator call button and stared at the ceiling, which offered little in the way of enlightenment apart from the LED strip lighting. “Okay, then… so… uh… well, let’s see…  um… er…”  
  
“You don’t know what to get her either, do you?” Mark said. He sighed.  
  
“Hey!” Jason protested. “I’ll think of something! You just wait!”  
  
The elevator car arrived and the two young men boarded. Mark pressed the button for the G-Force office level and watched the doors close.  
  
“It has to be something personal, but not _too_ personal,” Mark said.  
  
“Yeah,” Jason said. “And it needs to be something Princess wouldn’t buy for herself. Something that’ll surprise her.”  
  
“In a good way,” Mark qualified.  
  
“Yeah. In a good way.” Jason folded his arms and frowned. “Darn,” he said. “This could be quite a challenge.”  
  
  
  
  
“Tiny! You have to help us!”  
  
Tiny Harper glanced up from the maintenance release. “You think?” he said. “Lemme sign off on this.” Tiny scrawled his signature on the release. “Back in a sec’. Hey, Suzie! All done!”  
  
Mark and Jason watched as Tiny handed over the maintenance release to Captain Tranh. They waved in response to the engineer’s smile and waited impatiently for Tiny to return.  
  
“What’s the problem?” Tiny asked.  
  
Mark told him.  
  
“That should be easy!” Tiny said.  
  
“See?” Jason said. “Tiny’s a thoughtful dude, and he’s popular with the ladies. He’ll come up with something.”  
  
Tiny folded his arms. “It needs to be something she’d like, but something she wouldn’t buy herself… Huh… this could be harder than I thought.”  
  
  
  
  
“Keyop! You have to help us!”  
  
“You think?” Keyop looked up from the report he was writing to see Mark, Jason and Tiny beckoning to him from Mark’s small office. “You want I should go get Princess?”  
  
“No!” three voices chorused.  
  
Several minutes later. Keyop looked from Mark, to Jason, to Tiny and back again. “What makes you think I know anything about getting a Christmas gift for a girl?”  
  
“She’s, like, your big sister!” Tiny hissed. “You share an apartment! You know what she likes!”  
  
“Yeah, dumb girl stuff!” Keyop said.  
  
  
  
  
“Boss! You have to help us!”  
  
G-Force Director Anderson looked up from his desk.  
  
“You think?” he said, having recognised the looks on the boys’ faces for what they were.  
  
“I don’t know who else to ask!” Mark said.  
  
The problem was outlined and the conspirators formed a loose sort of cluster around Anderson’s desk.  
  
Mark sat in one of the visitors’ chairs with a notepad and pen.  
  
“Perfume?” Anderson suggested.  
  
Mark shrugged and wrote the word ‘perfume’ on the notepad. "What kind of perfume does Princess like?" he wondered.  
  
"L'Air du Temps," Jason said carelessly.  
  
Mark frowned. "How do you know?"  
  
Jason let out his breath in a sigh. "Because last week when we were all at her place for dinner, I used the bathroom, and when I washed my hands, I snuck a peek in the bathroom cabinet because I knew the holidays were coming up. Oh, by the way, Mark," he added, "she buys Durex condoms."  
  
Mark's intended, "What?" came out as a strangled squawking sound.  
  
Keyop's cry of, “What?” was only barely more intelligible.  
  
"That's enough," Anderson told them. "Jason..."  
  
"I was kidding," Jason said.  
  
"I'm aware of that," Anderson said, "and it isn't funny."  
  
"Chocolate," Tiny said, raising his voice to change the subject.  
  
"Chocolate," Mark agreed, writing ‘chocolate’ under ‘perfume’ and glowering at Jason.  
  
"Lacy underthings," Keyop giggled.  
  
"No," said Mark. The pen twitched once but he made no move to write anything down.  
  
"She might like a book," Chief Anderson speculated.  
  
Jason gave him a withering look that communicated more than five minutes of elocution could have.  
  
Anderson shrugged. "Gift voucher?" he tried again.  
  
"Chief," Mark explained, "we're trying to think of something _personal_."  
  
"A vase?" Tiny said.  
  
"Maybe," Mark said, and added ‘vase’ to his list. "That's three whole items, guys."  
  
"Say," Jason said, brightening, "do you think she'd like one of those Tibetan singing bowl things?"  
  
"What, like the brass thing with the wooden thing that you do the...noise... thing... with?" Mark asked.  
  
Jason gave Mark a steady look. "Yeah, the thing with the thing that you do the thing with," he said. "Where do you get your subtle command of the language?"  
  
"Where do you buy Tibetan singing bowls?" Tiny wanted to know. Anderson leaned forward to cast an eye over the list, which hadn't changed.  
  
"Tibet?" Mark suggested warily, as Jason cast his gaze heavenward.  
  
"Just about any one of those new agey alternative weirdo stores in New Haight," Jason said, and pointed at the notepad in front of Mark. "Go on, scribe."  
  
Mark wrote ‘Tibetan singing bowl.’ "That's four," he said.  
  
"How 'bout a vacation?" Tiny put forward.  
  
"A vacation?" Jason grinned.  
  
"In your dreams," Anderson told them.  
  
"It was worth a try," Tiny sighed.  
  
"I know! Computer games!" Keyop put forward.  
  
"That's _your_ Christmas wish, squirt," Jason said.  
  
"Come on, guys," Mark said, "ideas."  
  
"Has anyone," Anderson said, "considered asking Princess what she'd like for Christmas? Or is that too close to logic for you to cope with?"  
  
"It's supposed to be a _surprise_ ," Mark explained.  
  
"And if she's surprised, and hates what you get?" Anderson debated.  
  
"She won't hate it," Jason said. "I mean, what Mark gets might not be _exactly_ what she wants, but the thing with gifts is that it has to be something given from the heart, something thoughtful. Women go for that."  
  
"I'm tempted to ask how you came by your extensive knowledge of the female psyche," Anderson said, "but I'm afraid you might tell me."  
  
Jason only smirked.  
  
"How 'bout a catalogue?" Tiny said suddenly.  
  
"What's Princess going to do with a catalogue?" Mark wondered.  
  
"Not her," Tiny corrected, "us. Why don't we get some catalogues, look through 'em, and pick out stuff Princess might like."  
  
"Good idea!" Keyop exclaimed.  
  
“Ugh!” Mark let his head fall forward onto the desk. “This is insane! All I wanted was some help figuring out what to get Princess for Christmas!”  
  
There was a knock at the door.  
  
Mark fumbled with the notepad. Jason picked it up and tossed it to Tiny. Tiny juggled it for a second then thrust it at Keyop, who hugged it to his chest, then threw it to Anderson, who caught it and shoved it in his desk drawer.  
  
“Yes?” he called.  
  
The door opened and Lieutenant Colonel Alberta Jones stepped inside. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were in a meeting.”  
  
“We’re not having a mee-mmph!” Keyop started to say before Tiny clapped a hand over his mouth.  
  
“Ah,” Jones said. “one of _those_ not-meetings. It’s after seventeen hundred,” she said to Anderson. “Gunny’s gone home and we’re supposed to be going Christmas shopping.”  
  
“Al!” Mark said. “You have to help us!”  
  
  
  
  
The shop assistant tied the gold ribbon in a bow and handed over the slim gift-wrapped folder. “All done. I’m sure the young lady will love it!”  
  
“Thanks,” Mark said, and handed over some cash from his wallet in **exchange** for the item.  
  
“So you ended up with a gift voucher after all,” Jason said with a smirk. He was holding a gift-wrapped box of his own.  
  
“Yes,” Mark said, “but now that I know what to say _with_ the gift voucher, it’s okay.”  
  
“Got it memorised?” Jason asked.  
  
“Sure,” Mark said. “I wouldn’t presume to buy her perfume that might not be exactly right, so I got this gift voucher from _Le Maison Parfums_ so that Princess could choose something that’s perfect for her.”  
  
“Y’know, skipper,” Jason said, “there may be hope for you after all.”


	51. Bradbury's Jar #316 - Erotic Pizza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Effective communication... not.

“Oh, my!” 7-Zark-7 exclaimed, and opened a channel. “G-Force, this is Center Neptune Control. 7-Zark-7 calling G-Force. Come in!”  
  
A burst of static erupted from the speakers.  
  
“Oh, dear.” The robot adjusted some controls. “G-Force, this is Center Neptune Control. Transmission unreadable. Phasing in filters and signal boosters. G-Force, this is Center Neptune Control. I’ve detected a severe storm cell forming close to you. You need to evacuate! Come in, G-Force!”  
  
  
  
  
Jason bared his teeth into the wind, then thought better of it and spat out a mouthful of melting snow. He turned so that his back was to the weather. “It’s around here somewhere!” he said, holding up his left wrist. The red indicator in the face was blinking rapidly.  
  
Mark, shoulders hunched inside the heavy snowsuit, nodded his head. “Just as long as there aren’t any more bears!” he said.  
  
“Yeah,” Jason agreed. “I thought Canadians were supposed to be polite!”  
  
“Apparently nobody told the bears!” Mark quipped. “Come on. Let’s keep looking!”  
  
Mark and Jason continued walking, following the signal, their progress impeded by the savage crosswind that kept trying to blow them sideways.  
  
“There!” Jason shouted, pointing to an odd shape in the snow. “Looks like a bivouac!”  
  
They plunged forward, booted feet sinking into the snow with each step. When they reached the shelter, they were obliged to scoop the snow from it with their gloved hands until the surface of the bivouac tent was exposed. They fumbled for the tent’s entrance and managed to unzip it before falling inside.  
  
The tent’s occupant made no objection.  
  
They were far too late for that.  
  
The wind continued to roar over and around the tent, but it was muffled enough inside the sturdy polymer shell that Mark and Jason were able to hear the voice emitting from their bracelets.  
  
_“G-Fo-c-, --i- i- Center Neptune ---trol. --Zark-7 calling G-Force. Come in!”_  
  
Mark tapped the face of his communicator. “G-Force, reading you, Zark. There’s a lot of interference. You’re readability one. Over.”  
  
Jason was hunched over the body. “Doctor Livingstone, I presume,” he said.  
  
“Not funny, Jase,” Mark said.  
  
“Right,” Jason said. “Doctor very-dead-stone, I presume.”  
  
“Jason, just because the guy’s name was Doctor Stone doesn’t mean you can haul out every bad pun–”  
  
_“-For--, th-- is Ce--- <pop!>une ---trol. <Hisssssssss> \--rea--. <crackle> filters and signal boosters. G-Force, this is Center Neptune Control. I’ve detected a severe storm cell forming close to you. You need to evacuate! Come in, G-Force!”_  
  
“That’s better,” Mark said. “Hey, Zark, reading you loud and clear, buddy!”  
  
_“Your transmission is still badly broken, Commander. You’ll need to speak slowly and clearly. I’ve boosted the signal as much as I can from this end, but there seems to be a lot of interference where you are.”_  
  
“That’d be the storm,” Mark said. “How long before the really heavy stuff hits us?”  
  
_“Transmission unreadable. Say again.”_  
  
“How long, Zark?”  
  
_“Transmission unreadable. Say again.”_  
  
“Damn.” Mark closed the channel. “Jason, we need to get out of here, fast. Have you found the data strip?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“Well, grab it and let’s go!”  
  
“Uh… yeah, about that…”  
  
“What?” Mark moved over to where Jason had unzipped the late Dr Stone’s sleeping bag.  
  
“It’s clutched in his cold, dead hand,” Jason said. “His very cold, very dead hand. His _frozen_ hand.”  
  
“Oh,” Mark said.  
  
“Yeah,” Jason said.  
  
“Frozen, as in…”  
  
“Solid.”  
  
Mark swallowed. “We’re gonna have to…”  
  
“Yes,” Jason said. “I think your boomerang’s the most appropriate tool for the job. I could use the drill attachment on my gun, but we’d end up with bits of Doctor Stone flying around this tent like the nastiest snowflakes in the galaxy.”  
  
“Thanks, Jason,” Mark said. “Some mental images can’t be erased.”  
  
“Hey, Skipper, a problem shared is a problem halved.”  
  
“Not in this case it isn’t.”  
  
While Mark removed his right glove and fished under layers of clothing to retrieve his sonic boomerang, Jason considered the third occupant of the bivouac. “How long d’you think he’s been like this?”  
  
“Too long,” Mark said. “Probably since right after that last distress signal. He said he was injured.”  
  
“It can’t have been quick,” Jason said. “Look at that finger. It’s black.”  
  
“Frostbite?”  
  
“No. It was broken. You can see the bone.”  
  
“Jason, could we please stop having this conversation?” Mark asked. “It’s bad enough I have to cut a data strip out of a dead guy’s hand. You’re not helping.”  
  
  
  
7-Zark-7 made some additional adjustments and drummed his metallic fingers against the top of his console. “Lenny?” he ventured. “How’s that satellite doing?”  
  
_“Keep your FOSDIC on,”_ 12-LEN-5 grumbled. _“There! It’s in position. Do your worst. Sat Traffic Control out.”_  
  
“Such a grouch!” Zark muttered, and accessed the satellite. “Center Neptune Control, calling Mark. Come in, Commander.”  
  
_“Zark! We-- ---- one! <hiss!> <crackle!>\---rip – merang – <hisssssssss>  **erotic pizza** – <crackle!>\-- willya? How long be--- its?”_  
  
7-Zark-7 lacked eyelid analogues, so it was not possible for him to blink.  
  
“Say again, Commander? What was that about pizza?”  
  
_“What?”_  
  
“What?”  
  
_“- turning – enix!”_  
  
7-Zark-7 attempted some more adjustments. “Return to the _Phoenix_ , Commander. The storm cell is less than thirty minutes away. Abort the mission! Do you read?”  
  
  
  
  
Two hours later, the door to Nerve Centre slid open with a hiss and the G-Force Commander trudged in. “We got it,” he said, and held out a data strip. “Be thankful that we cleaned it up. I’m going to go and take a hot shower. Possibly three really hot showers. Then I’m taking a bath.”  
  
“Uh, Commander?” Zark ventured.  
  
“Yeah, Zark?”  
  
“Your transmissions were somewhat… garbled. Would you mind uploading your comm data? For the sake of a complete record, you understand.”  
  
“Sure,” Mark said. He approached one of the consoles, bent and pressed the face of his wristband to a plate. “Done,” he said. “I can hear the showers calling me. God, I may never be warm again…”  
  
When the door had closed and the elevator was descending, Zark accessed the comm logs.  
  
_“Zark, we found Doctor Stone’s body. I have to cut the data strip free with my boomerang. Jason, just move that **necrotic piece a’** finger out the way, willya? How long before the storm hits?”_  
  
“Ah,”  Zark said. “I see. That’s a relief! I was starting to think I should alert the team psychologist.”


	52. Bradbury's Jar #317 - My Worst Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes are trying to find the source of the on-going problem with gatchamania.net.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some background may be called for here. At the time this was written, the community website gatchamania.net kept falling over with an Error 503 code. This led to some metafiction over on the alternative community site Crescent Coral Base. ElectricWhite started a story about Spectra Goons getting into the site and causing trouble, then Katblu42 suggested that Zark might have been fouling things up with his hopeless command of grammar ("nebula" is the singular, Zark, and "nebulae" is the plural, you idiot) and one thing led to another... You can guess the rest.

**Meanwhile, somewhere within the depths of Gatchamania.net...**

  
  
"What the hell is that smell?" Jason demanded, sitting up straight.  
  
"What smell?" Joe asked. He was lying in a recliner chair, with a newspaper over his face, causing his words to come out slightly muffled with an accompaniment of softly rustling paper.  
  
Jun paused in her task of trying to arrange a single flower perfectly in the room. "Is this one of those times when your cerebonic implants aren't beneficial, or is someone getting too much fibre in their diet?"  
  
"Jun!" Ken exclaimed. "That's... that's unseemly!"  
  
Jun put the vase with its lone cymbidium orchid down on the coffee table and put her hands on her hips. "It may not be traditional," she said, "but I'm starting to think that there may be some advantages in western culture, like not being scandalised by simple observation, or feeling comfortable telling a man where he can go and what he can do with himself once he gets there!"  
  
"You go, girl!" Princess said, punching the air. She jumped up out of her chair and high-fived Jun, who grinned at her counterpart. Princess stopped and sniffed. "Uh-oh. Jason's right. There _is_ a smell, and either the drains have backed up _really_ badly, or there's something wrong with the site."  
  
"What, again?" Ryu said. "Oh, darn!" Ryu put the controller down as Keyop cheered, having killed Ryu's character in the _Halo_ game they were playing.  
  
Tiny and Jinpei sauntered in through the door, having come back from returning Echo the Barn Owl to his rightful licensee. "Something sure stinks out there," Jinpei declared.  
  
"We'd better check it out," Mark said with a sigh.  
  
"Maybe we should do it," Ken said. "If your cerebonics make you sensitive to odours, it might be easier if we handle it."  
  
"We could go together," Mark said. "Our sensitivity might make it easier to find the source of the problem."  
  
"Or you could find yourselves overwhelmed," Ken pointed out.  
  
"Oh, God, somebody clear away the testosterone!" Princess said. "We'll all go. Jun, why don't you go with Mark and I'll go with Ken? That way if any of us fragile little G-Forcers get overwhelmed by the smell, there'll still be a valiant Science Ninja to save the day!"  
  
In the face of logic, the two team leaders exchanged glances and shrugged.  
  
"You're in for it now," Mark muttered. "A word of advice. Don't say _anything_ about women. At all."  
  
"Roger," Ken said under his breath.

  
  
  
Ken could smell the odour once they got out of the team quarters and into the site itself. It was definitely excremental. "This is horrible!" he said. "How do you stand it? I mean, with the implants enhancing your senses?"  
  
"I just put up with it," Princess said. "Same as anyone else. It seems to be coming from the links area."  
  
"Let's check it out," Ken said.  
  
They made a brief detour around a few of the bloodier smileys.  
  
"Princess?" Ken ventured carefully.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Can I ask you a question? About... um... girls?"  
  
Princess' eyebrows rose. "Okay," she said.  
  
"Why is it that when I try to treat Jun like a lady, she gets mad at me, and if I try to treat her like one of the guys, she still gets mad at me? What am I doing wrong?"  
  
"Oh, that," Princess said. "That's timing and context."  
  
"It's what?" Ken asked.  
  
"Timing," Princess said again, "and context. See, you kinda have to read the situation. Sometimes a woman wants to be treated like an equal, but other times, it's nice to be treated like a lady. The trick is knowing when to do what."  
  
"But how?" Ken asked.  
  
"Well," Princess said, "like today. Jun made a slightly off-colour joke, so she was being one of the boys. If she'd asked you to check out the ikebana thing she was doing with that flower, then _that_ would have been the time to remember that she's a girl."  
  
Ken's blank look did not bode well.  
  
"Ken," Princess said, "you have to listen and observe."  
  
"Oh," Ken said, then his face went blank again. "How?"  
  
"Like I just told you! Jun's words and actions should give you clues!"  
  
"They should?"  
  
"Yeah, they... Oh, God, the smell's getting worse."  
  
"It is, isn't it?"  
  
Princess held a corner of one cape wing over her lower face. Ken found himself doing likewise. They ducked as a low-flying flock of html tags whirred overhead and entered an area of the site which appeared to be given over to a double-decker-bus-sized mountain of... well... _manure_.  
  
"I'd be sick at this point," Princess said, her voice slightly muffled by the fabric of her cape, "but since I'd have to breathe to do it, I'm not gonna."  
  
"Good plan," Ken said, trying not to gag.  
  
A small dome-topped robot trundled toward them. "Hello, Princess! Hello, Mark!"  
  
"It's Ken," Princess said with a nod toward her companion.  
  
"Oh," Zark said, and his voice took on a slightly disapproving tone. "Why isn't Mark with you?"  
  
"He'll probably be along any minute," Princess said. "Zark, what exactly is going on here?"  
  
"Oh, I've been tidying things up!" the robot said happily. "Would you like to see?"  
  
"Not really," Princess said, "but please show us anyway."  
  
"I'm having trouble processing that sentence," Zark said.  
  
"Sorry, Zark. It was a joke that didn't work. Please show us what you've been up to."  
  
Ken and Princess followed the robot around the manure mountain. Ken scanned the walls in horror. "These are links to fanfiction-dot-net!"  
  
"Yes," Zark said. "I thought I'd compile a comprehensive list of all references to _Battle of the Planets_ , _Gatchaman_ and all the related fandoms. Then I noticed how poor the grammar was on a lot of those sites, so I thought I'd do a little fixing. At the moment, I'm working on removing inappropriate usages of the word, 'literally.'"  
  
Princess stopped short. "That explains it," she said. "Sturgeon's Law."  
  
Ken closed his eyes. "Ninety eight percent of everything on the internet..."  
  
"Is crap," Princess finished.  
  
"And since Zark's extracting multiple instances of the word, 'literally'..."  
  
"We _literally_ have a giant steaming pile of crap!"  
  
Ken drew his birdrang. "You ridiculous pile of spare parts!" he growled. "I'm doing to dismantle you!"  
  
"Wait-wait-wait!" Princess said, blocking Ken's path. "He can fix this!"  
  
"I don't care!" Ken said.  
  
"Yes, you do," Princess corrected, "because if he doesn't fix this, _we_ , and by 'we' I mean, 'the person who dismantled Zark,' ie: _you_ , will have to _shovel up this humungous pile of poop, then get rid of it_."  
  
"Ah," Ken said as Princess' logic caught up with him. "Good point. Well made."  
  
Princess turned to Zark, let her cape fall away from her face and plastered the most saccharine smile she could manage on her face. "Zark," she said, "you know how fond I am of you, right?"  
  
"You are?" Zark gasped. "Oh, that's so sweet of you!"  
  
"And you know we've been friends for a very long time, right?"  
  
"Of course we have," Zark said blissfully.  
  
"And if you don't put everything back the way it was, I'm not going to be responsible for my actions."  
  
"I... really?"  
  
"Really. You've seen what I can do with a few well-placed explosives."  
  
"But... what about the grammar? And the new library?"  
  
"I think," Ken said, "that we should allow humans to explore the internet in their own way and find the joys of fanfiction-dot-net by following their individual paths to... um... that stuff. It's, um... Zen. Yes. Zen. That's what it is. Did I tell you I'm a Buddhist? We're in to that stuff."  
  
"Oh," Zark said. "Well, far be it from me to do something that isn't culturally sensitive! I'll put it all back the way it was so that you humans can do your Zen."  
  
"Exactly!" Princess said. "Good job, Zark! Come on, Ken, let's leave Zark to do his thing!"  
  
"With pleasure!" Ken agreed.  
  
The humans fled.  
  
Zark gazed up at the shit mountain he'd created. "I suppose it _does_ look a bit untidy," he conceded. "Sometimes, I'm **my** own **worst** enema... I mean, **enemy**. Oh! I made a funny!"


	53. Bradbury's Jar #317 - My Worst Enemy deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another one that just popped into my mind in a moment of evil.

The G-Force team leaned forward in their seats on the twin sofas in Security Chief Anderson's office while the Chief of Galaxy Security briefed them on the new intelligence they'd received.  
  
"For a long time," Anderson said, pacing up and down in front of the team, hands clasped behind his back, "I believed that **my worst enemy** was Zoltar of Spectra. Now I know that it's someone - or rather, some _thing_ \- completely different."  
  
"Some _thing_ , Chief?" Mark echoed, frowning.  
  
"Something called The Great Spirit, or the Luminous One. Some kind of energy-being that the Spectran people worship like a god."  
  
"How do we fight a god, for... for, um... Pete's sake?" Jason asked.  
  
"There is an ancient word of power," Anderson said. "The word of power, chanted three times in the presence of the Great Spirit, will enable you to banish it from our reality forever. The word of power was guarded by a terrible necromancer in a high glittering tower of steel and glass in the centre of a great city. Our agents managed to trick the necromancer into revealing the word. I will only tell you this word once. You must memorise it and guard the knowledge with your lives. Many Bothans - I mean, Galaxy Security Agents - died to bring us this information."  
  
"What's the word of power?" Mark asked.  
  
"The word," Anderson said, "is..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
" _Covfefe!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it had to mean something, right? No? Anyone? (Sigh!)


	54. Bradbury's Jar #318 - Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's the magic word?

“It’s for your own good,” he said.  
  
There was no reply.  
  
“I know I don’t usually do this, but I don’t see how it’s any different from the last time.”  
  
There was a long, drawn out sigh.  
  
“All you have to do is open your mouth.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“You put worse things than this in there all the time!”  
  
…  
  
“It isn’t as though I’m enjoying it, y’know.”  
  
“Hmph!”  
  
“Finally! It has something to say! Come on…”  
  
Another exhalation of breath.  
  
“This is just turning into an exercise in **frustration** , isn’t it? What’s with you, anyway?”  
  
“Keyop,” Anderson said, “you have to use the prompt.”  
  
Keyop turned around to address his mentor, who had walked up behind him. “The prompt?”  
  
Anderson stepped up to stand beside the youngest member of G-Force, he held up a hand, fingers and thumb together, then opened the hand to imitate a pair of jaws opening. “Open,” he said.  
  
Orion opened his mouth and Keyop moved quickly to shove the de-worming pill down the dog’s gullet.  
  
Orion swallowed, then looked hopefully at Keyop, who followed up with a dog biscuit.  
  
“Now go and wash your hands,” Anderson said.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chief Anderson is demonstrating a bog-standard prompt that professional animal trainers use. In real life, you only use your thumb and forefinger, but that would have required too much verbage. Other standard prompts include, "Target," and "Station," which are all very useful when the animal you want to examine or treat is capable of ripping your head off. It's all done using kindness nowadays, because if you attempt any other way, the animal capable of ripping your head off might just give it a go. Canonically, Orion is a cerebonically-enhanced St Bernard dog, which makes him capable of removing any number of heads from their owners' bodies, so he is very carefully and thoroughly trained using positive reinforcement and a LOT of dog biscuits (high protein, low fat, grain-free of course).


	55. Bradbury’s Jar #319 - Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the great mysteries of car-ownership.

The great thing about mornings at Camp Parker, Mark mused happily, was the way the air smelled at sunup. The mountain air was sweet and heavy with dew, like a day spa for the lungs, with only the occasional whiff of turbine fuel drifting up from the runway if there was air traffic (and what pilot objects to that?)  
  
As he returned to the G-Force quarters after a quick early morning stroll, Mark’s sharp hearing picked up a muttered curse. He changed course and made his way to the hardstand outside the team’s garage area to see the G2 in civilian mode, parked outside with Jason crouched down beside the driver’s door.  
  
“Morning, Jase,” Mark said. “What’s up.”  
  
Jason straightened and leaned against the door of the vehicle. “Nothin’ much,” he said.  
  
“You find a scratch in the paintwork?” Mark asked. “I thought the ceramalloy finish was supposed to be, y’know… scratch-proof.”  
  
“It is,” Jason said, and folded his arms.  
  
“So what’s up with you and the car?”  
  
Jason scowled “It’s nothing,” he said.  
  
“Nah,” Mark said with a quick grin. “It’s something, all right. You wouldn’t be out here at sparrow-fart if it was nothing. I could order you to spill the beans,” he suggested.  
  
“And I could invite you to consider a finger,” Jason said. “Which one d’you think it’ll be?”  
  
“I was kidding, Jason,” Mark said. “It’s too nice a morning to start the day with an argument, for crying out loud. Just tell me what the problem is. Maybe I can help.”  
  
Jason let his breath out in a sigh. “It’s the wing mirror spider,” he confessed.  
  
“The…”  
  
“Wing. Mirror. Spider,” Jason said again through clenched teeth.  
  
Mark thought for a moment. “Oh. My car doesn’t get those.”  
  
“That’s because your car’s wing mirrors are useless little circles of glass on the hood. Mine are on the doors and they have housings with electric motors and I’ve got a wing mirror spider.”  
  
“So, are we out of bug spray?” Mark asked. “You could get some from the quartermaster’s store.”  
  
Jason took a deep breath, held it for a count of three and let it go again. “I don’t want to kill it,” he said.  
  
“You don’t want to kill the wing mirror spider,” Mark concluded. “Is it a friend of yours or something?”  
  
“Very funny. Look, I just don’t see the point in killing an innocent creature for the crime of trying to live its life.”  
  
“Uh, Jase?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“It’s a spider.”  
  
“See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you what I was doing. I knew you wouldn’t get it!”  
  
“No, no, I get it,” Mark said. “I really do. Um… how are you going to remove the spider without hurting it?”  
  
“I’m really not sure,” Jason admitted. “I was thinking of maybe taking the housing off.”  
  
“That’s a lot of work for one little spider,” Mark said. He approached the vehicle. “May I?”  
  
“Sure,” Jason said, and stepped aside.  
  
Mark bent and peered into the shadowy depths of the wing mirror housing. “I can’t see it,” he said.  
  
“Yeah, me neither, but I know it’s there. Every morning, there’s a fresh web, and it’s always on the driver’s side.”  
  
One of Camp Parker’s regular security officer proceeded* past the driveway area. “Morning, sirs,” he said.  
  
“Morning, Thompson,” Jason said. Mark nodded and raised a hand in greeting.  
  
“Everything okay, sirs?” Alec Thompson asked.  
  
“Wing mirror spider,” Jason said.  
  
“Aw darn, those things!” Thompson said. “Every morning, a fresh web, and it’s always on the driver’s side.”  
  
“I know!” Jason said.  
  
“Why is that?” Thompson wondered aloud. “The driver’s side, I mean?”  
  
“Beats me,” Jason said. “It’s a **mystery**.”  
  
“One of the great unsolved mysteries of the universe,” Thompson agreed.  
  
“Whatcha doin?” Keyop asked as he walked up to the little group.  
  
“Spiderectomy of the G-2’s wing mirror,” Jason explained.  
  
“Aw, you ain’t gonna hurt it?” Keyop asked.  
  
“Heck, no,” Jason said. “I’m trying to find it so’s I can remove it, y’know, humanely.”  
  
“Huh,” Keyop said. “C’n I see?”  
  
“Be my guest,” Jason said, and watched as Keyop examined the wing mirror for signs of its occupant.  
  
“Are you boys planning on having breakfast today or… What are you doing?” Princess asked as she approached the group.  
  
“I think it might be turning into a snark hunt,” Mark said. “Jason’s got a wing mirror spider.”  
  
“Ugh!” Princess kept her distance. “I’ll just stay over here if it’s all the same to you.”  
  
“I’d better get on with my patrol,” Thompson said. “Excuse me.” The officer left the group and continued on his way.  
  
After a while, Tiny emerged from the G-Force living quarters. “Hey, you guys! I’m making blueberry ricotta buckwheat pancakes… What are you doing?”  
  
Jason closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “I should probably just send a memo around,” he muttered.  
  
“ _Spider_ ,” Princess said with a shudder, pointing at the G-2.  
  
“Wing mirror spider,” Keyop added.  
  
“Oh, right,” Tiny said. “Driver’s side door?”  
  
“Always,” Jason said.  
  
“Why _do_ they do that?” Tiny asked the universe in general.  
  
“And does anybody care?” Princess asked her colleagues in particular.  
  
“I care,” Keyop said.  
  
“Yeah, well, you would,” Princess conceded.  
  
“Wing mirror spiders are nocturnal,” Tiny said.  
  
“So?” Jason asked.  
  
“So, you wait until it’s dark, then you come outside and you’ll find the spider sitting on the wing mirror.”  
  
“What if we called on a mission before then?” Keyop asked.  
  
“Then I’m sorry, dude,” Tiny said, “but the spider’ll end up being a casualty of war.”  
  
“So I can blame Zoltar, right?” Jason inferred.  
  
“Absolutely,” Mark said.  
  
“So,” Tiny said, “why don’tcha all come back inside for breakfast and we’ll reconvene this evening for the Great G-Force Spider Relocation?”  
  
“Count me out,” Princess said.  
  
“Fair enough,” Mark said.  
  
  
Later that evening, a precision action by the galaxy’s most formidable elite strike force effected the humane relocation of the wing mirror spider.  
  
  
The next morning, Mark went for a morning stroll and found Security Chief Anderson’s BMW on the hardstand. Anderson was standing next to the car with his arms folded.  
  
“Morning, Chief,” Mark said. “What’s up?”  
  
“Morning, Mark,” Anderson said. “I seem to have acquired a wing mirror spider…”


	56. Bradbury’s Jar #320 – Exact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mala is every bit as cruel and heartless as her brother Zoltar.

On a private balcony of the winter palace, Zoltar fell backwards in a sweep of regalia and landed among the scatter cushions on Mala’s day bed, to the chagrin of the bed’s occupant.  
  
“Really, little brother,” Mala chided. “Must you be so melodramatic?”  
  
“I cannot hear you,” Zoltar said. “My ears are still ringing from my audience with the Luminous One.”  
  
“That is no excuse,” Mala grumbled. She picked up a cushion and dropped it on Zoltar’s face, but she did move over and make room, shifting her tablet and freezing the holo display. “It was a good plan. You were unlucky not to have succeeded,” she said.  
  
“Very much so,” Zoltar sighed.  
  
“I thought you couldn’t hear me,” Mala pointed out.  
  
“You are a cruel and heartless woman,” Zoltar grumbled.  
  
“Of course I am,” Mala said. “Have you only just noticed?”  
  
Zoltar pushed aside the cushions and sat up. “You are not making this easy,” he said. “I am feeling sorry for myself and all you can do is argue.”  
  
Mala shrugged. “Cruel and heartless, remember? As are you, dearest sib.”  
  
“True,” Zoltar agreed. “All the same, can I not **exact** from you even a tiny bit of pity?”  
  
“Very well,” Mala said. “I shall give you five minutes of pity, starting now.” She patted her brother on the shoulder. “There, there,” she said.  
  
“Thank you,” Zoltar said. “I feel much better now.”


	57. Bradbury's Jar #321 - Clone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Galaxy Girl is given a mission to abduct one of Anderson's kids.

“The Rigans never knew what hit them!” Aria declared, raising her glass in a toast.  
  
“That’s not quite true,” Varya said with a smile. “They knew what hit them for less than a minute.”  
  
Cinda laughed with the others. The Galaxy Girl squad had been assigned to assassinate a high-ranking member of Rigan Intelligence at their embassy on Aquatica. Weeks of painstaking work gathering information on General Isannen had culminated in a very short, very bloody fight which left the General, his security detail and most of his staff dead.  
  
“More wine, Cinda?”  
  
Cinda smiled and shook her head. Varya’s assistant Zira had been blooded today. The girl had been doing well with her training and was loyal to a fault.  
  
“Thank you, Zira, but no,” Cinda said. “You did well today.”  
  
“Not as well as you,” Zira said.  
  
“I performed adequately,” Cinda said with a sigh. It didn’t matter how well she fought, Zira was the only member of the squad who treated her like a friend. Varya was kind enough, but Cinda was aware that Varya watched her like a hawk, as though waiting for her to do something wrong. The others were always courteous but never allowed their civility to thaw to a point where it might be considered friendship.  
  
“You had the most kills of everyone except Varya,” Zira said.  
  
“You’re kind, Zira,” Cinda said. “Stay and enjoy yourself. I’m going to take a walk.”  
  
Cinda got up from the table, aware that the others were watching her even though they gave no outward sign. She headed for the door and made her way outside to where she could find a spot by herself on the long balcony.  
  
Further up the mountainside were the lights of the Imperial Palace. The flags were flying proudly in the evening breeze, including the personal banner of the _Imperator_ : Zoltar was at home.  
  
A frisson of revulsion coiled in Cinda’s stomach at the thought of Zoltar. She took a deep breath and tried to dispel the feeling.  
  
The sound of a door closing and soft footfalls along the balcony had Cinda turning to see Zira walking toward her.  
  
“What is it, Zira?” Cinda asked.  
  
“I don’t understand why the others don’t accept you,” Zira said.  
  
Cinda shrugged. “I have no past,” she said.  
  
Zira stared. “What does that mean? Everyone has a past. Even me. It’s not much of a past, growing up on a smallholding with mud and cattle, but it’s still a past. I know the others call me ‘farm girl’ behind my back, but I’ll earn my place eventually. They say it less and less these days.”  
  
“I don’t even have that,” Cinda said. She turned back to the balustrade and leaned on it, forearms resting on the carven stone. “I can’t remember anything from before my training.”  
  
“What, nothing at all?” Zira asked.  
  
“Nothing at all,” Cinda said. “I can’t remember my family, can’t remember growing up. I don’t remember going to school or having a sweetheart… Nothing.”  
  
“Oh, Cinda! Were you injured?” Zira asked.  
  
“I don’t know,” Cinda said. “It isn’t a memory, not as such, but a feeling… I think maybe Lord Zoltar had something to do with it, but I can’t remember.”  
  
“Why, then you are fortunate!” Zira said with all the naiveté of youth. “You have met Lord Zoltar, even if you don’t remember, and he must have some plan for you!”  
  
Cinda managed to smile through the feeling that her spine was turning to ice. “You may well be right,” she said. “Thank you for your insight, Zira. You should rejoin the celebration. Today was your first mission and you have earned the right to be called a Galaxy Girl.”  
  
“I suppose so. I didn’t just come out here to talk,” Zira said. “Varya wants to see you after dinner. She didn’t say why, just that I was to tell you to report to her no later than the ninth hour.”  
  
“I see. Please tell Varya that I shall certainly do that.”  
  
  
  
  
Pit Lane was all noise, movement and fumes. Cinda breathed deeply, aware of the exhilaration coursing through her blood. She wondered why something as prosaic as a car race should make her heart pound, and she stilled herself, waiting for the feeling to subside.  
  
Her target would be here somewhere.  
  
Varya’s instructions had been detailed and specific. The mission was important and Lord Zoltar himself was relying on her to succeed.  
  
The thrill was still there, hiding just underneath the surface. Cinda acknowledged it, accepted it and focussed on centring herself. In the plate glass window to her left, she caught sight of her reflection: tall, blonde with intense blue eyes and wearing the uniform and identity card of a volunteer marshal, she would blend in with the crowd. The ID card on its lanyard around her neck would get her where she needed to go.  
  
Cinda checked her watch. It was time to go. She adjusted the clipboard she carried in one hand and set out to find her target.  
  
Cinda had carried out careful reconnaissance during the week leading up to the race. She knew her way around the track and she knew how to find the Condor Racing garage. Condor Security was a major ISO contractor, and Varya had cautioned Cinda that it was believed to be a Galaxy Security front company.  
  
' _Treat everyone as though they are Galaxy Security operatives_ ,' Varya had warned. ' _Do not take anyone or anything for granted. Keep exactly to the script. There is no margin for error.'_  
  
The blue car was right where it was supposed to be. Cinda felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of it.  
  
The announcement blared over the track loudspeakers for the drivers in the next race to make their way to the starting grid. That was Cinda’s cue. The driver of the blue car, a rangy young man with red hair, was putting on his helmet. Cinda stepped into his line of sight.

  
The driver froze, staring at her out of violet eyes that widened in shock. Cinda gasped, feeling as though her heart would stop.  
  
“ _Lucy_?”  
  
Cinda took a breath and forced herself to speak as per Varya’s instructions: “Help me!” she mouthed silently, then she turned and ran.  
  
She knew which route she would take – she had practised it when the track was deserted at night – and she ran as though her life depended on it. She was barely aware of the people around her as she ducked, dodged and leapt.  
  
When she pulled up behind a catering truck, she listened for the sound of pursuing footsteps. There were none. She pulled her palm unit from a pocket and called up the race coverage. There! There was the blue car with the number 2 on the side, being waved into position on the starting grid.  
  
Her timing had been perfect.  
  
Now she would wait.  
  
Varya had not imparted any directives about the race itself, so Cinda indulged herself and watched it on the palm unit’s screen. The blue Condor Racing vehicle was in the lead and edging out its competition with each lap. Cinda found herself wanting to cheer with no idea where the impulse came from.  
  
When the engines had fallen silent, when the crowd was dispersing and the discarded rubbish from drinks, snacks and race programmes was blowing forlorn across the grandstand, Cinda headed back toward Pit Lane.  
  
The racing teams were packing up and the trucks were beginning to make their way toward the garages in a stink of biodiesel.  
  
The driver of the Condor Racing car was sitting on a stack of tyres, his head in his hands.  
  
Cinda approached. Her instructions were clear. “Jason,” she said.  
  
The racer started and stared at her as though he’d seen a ghost.  
  
“Lucy!” he said, his voice hoarse. “Is it really you?”  
  
_‘You must behave as though  you are terrified,’_ Varya had told her. _’Your target’s weakness is his sympathy and his impulsive tendency to try and help others.’_  
  
“I need your help,” Cinda said. “They’re looking for me! I can’t… I have to go!” She turned and ran again.  
  
The young man – _Jason_ – was following. “Lucy! Wait!”  
  
Cinda dodged around the Mechandol Lubricants Racing Team truck and sprinted for the gate that would lead her into the corporate section of the grandstand. She could hear the thudding footfalls behind her as Jason followed, but at the point where she expected to hear his breathing become laboured, he continued to run after her as though he’d only just started.  
  
Cinda threw herself to her right and ran across the front of the grandstand, then leapt the low barrier separating the corporate area from the public seating. She glanced over one shoulder to see Jason clearing the barrier without breaking stride.  
  
It made sense that he kept himself fit, Cinda told herself, putting on another burst of speed. Race car drivers had to be fit. She hadn’t expected this degree of athleticism, however.  
  
Cinda made for the stairs, only to see a powerfully-built and slightly stocky youth in a numbered t-shirt step into her path. She changed course, heading up higher in the stands. There would be another set of stairs fifty yards on.  
  
“Lucy!” Jason called again.  
  
All she had to do was to get him alone in the area below the grandstand. There, with no witnesses, she would drug Anderson’s adopted son and take him back to Spectra as a hostage.  
  
Jason was gaining on her.  
  
He couldn’t be allowed to catch up with her here, not out in the open. Cinda ran, muscles straining, lungs screaming for more air. She headed back down again toward the stairs and darted into the shadows.  
  
“Lucy?”  
  
She looked back to see Jason at the top of the stairs, clearly outlined against the daylight.  
  
“Please!” she cried, before she turned and hurried down the stairs.  
  
She heard a muttered curse, then he followed.  
  
At the bottom of the stairs, Cinda turned to her left and jogged down the corridor. She made sure Jason saw her push open a door and slip into a service corridor. She walked a few yards down and waited for him to come after her, keeping her breathing slow and deep.  
  
There! The door was opening.  
  
“Jason?” she ventured.  
  
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said, stepping into the service corridor. “Question is, are you _you?_ ”  
  
“Who else would I be?” Cinda asked him, making sure her voice quavered with fear as she spoke.  
  
“Let’s find out,” Jason said.  
  
There was a high-pitched whine. Cinda turned and caught a glimpse of a bright, bird-shaped weapon scything toward her, then the world went black.  
  
  
  
  
“Lucy? Lucy? Wake up now, Lucy.”  
  
Cinda opened her eyes. She made to stand and was thrown off balance by the chains attached to the manacles at her wrists and ankles. The chains were fastened to a metal ring on the floor and she was seated on a bench at a table, both of which were securely bolted down.  
  
She looked around the room and felt a wave of nausea wash over her.  
  
Standing in front of her was an ordinary-looking man in a dark grey suit. He had an open, friendly face with a neatly-barbered beard and receding brown hair. His eyes were kind, with the beginnings of laugh lines at the corners.  
  
Arrayed behind him were the G-Force team, glaring at her through their birdlike visors.  
  
“Lucy,” the man in the suit said, “I think you know who these people are. I’m–”  
  
“You’re Chief Galbraith,” Cinda said. “The most feared interrogator in the Federation.”  
  
“Feared?” Galbraith echoed. “Feared? Oh, Lucy, I do hope you aren’t afraid of me. I don’t do torture, honest. I much prefer the term, ‘ _effective’_ , when it comes to my methods. I’m really not a violent man.”  
  
“You won’t get anything out of me, Earth scum,” Cinda snarled.  
  
  
  
  
Cinda suspected that they’d drugged the food. Or the water. Or both. She refused to eat or drink. She’d fallen asleep and awoke to find herself strapped to a hospital bed with IV lines in her arm providing fluid and nutrients.  
  
“You really are very stubborn,” Galbraith said in his friendly way.  
  
For twenty-four hours, Galbraith absented himself while Cinda remained in the hospital bed. The nurses changed the bags and tried to encourage her to drink.  
  
She refused.  
  
Cinda asked to use the bathroom, thinking she would be able to overpower the nurse, but G-3 stood guard while they gave her a bedpan to use. It was humiliating.  
  
The next morning, Galbraith returned. “Got your test results back,” he said with a smile. “You have some very interesting stuff going on here.”  
  
Cinda looked away, refusing to be drawn.  
  
“Tell me, Lucy,” Galbraith said, his tone mild, “do you remember much about your childhood?”  
  
Cinda froze. “Of course I do,” she lied.  
  
“You remember your parents?”  
  
Cinda swallowed. “Why is this important?” she countered.  
  
“What were their names, Lucy?”  
  
“Go away, Chief Galbraith,” Cinda said. “I’ll tell you nothing.”  
  
“Not even things that I ought to know, already?”  
  
“I won’t even tell you where you can stick your questions,” Cinda said.  
  
The nurse came in as Galbraith left and gave Cinda a sedative. She drifted off to sleep, away from all the questions.  
  
  
  
  
Cinda wasn’t prepared to see Jason sitting in the chair beside the bed when she woke up.  
  
“You!” she gasped.  
  
“Yeah, apparently being related to the G-Force Director means I get to keep you company for a bit,” Jason said.  
  
“I wasn’t going to kill you,” Cinda said.  
  
“Nah, you were just going to hand me over to Zoltar of Spectra so _he_ could kill me!” Jason retorted.  
  
“You were to be a hostage,” Cinda said. “An important hostage.”  
  
“And the ISO has a policy of never negotiating,” Jason pointed out. “Anderson would never have caved. Not ever.”  
  
“Why are you here?” Cinda asked.  
  
“I wondered if you knew what happened to Lucy,” Jason said.  
  
“I’m Lucy,” Cinda said.  
  
“No,” Jason said sadly. “No, you aren’t.”  
  
“Everyone here keeps calling me Lucy,” Cinda said.  
  
“What’s your name, then?” Jason asked. “If it isn’t Lucy, what is it?”  
  
“I… Lucy’s good enough. I’ll answer to Lucy.”  
  
“Do you remember the first time we met?” Jason asked.  
  
“Don’t you?” Cinda parried.  
  
“Sure,” Jason said. “I just wanted to see if you did.”  
  
“Why do people keep asking me about my past?” Cinda asked.  
  
“Mostly it’s to see if you think you have one,” Jason said.  
  
“Tricks and lies!” Cinda said. “I told your Security Chief and I’ll tell you: I won’t talk.”  
  
“Won’t or can’t? See, I’m willing to bet that the reason you won’t tell us about your past is that you don’t remember having one.”  
  
Cinda held her breath, fighting to control the pounding of her heart.  
  
“Yeah,” Jason said, watching her. “I figured as much.”  
  
Cinda let her breath out and inhaled the cold, sterile air of the hospital room. “What do you know about me?” she demanded. “What do you know about my past? Why can’t I remember? Tell me! If you know so much then tell me!”  
  
“Not my story to tell, kid,” Jason said. “I’m going now. I’ll see you around… maybe.”  
  
“Jason!” Cinda cried, struggling against the restraints. “Tell me! You have to tell me!”  
  
But Jason walked out of the room without another word, holding the door open for the nurse as he left.  
  
Cinda fell back against the pillows and screamed.  
  
The nurse took a syringe out of the tray she was carrying and administered another sedative.  
  
  
  
  
When Galbraith visited again, Cinda stared at him dully.  
  
“What do you know about me?” she asked.  
  
“Oh, we have quite the dossier on you,” Galbraith said. “All three of you,” he added.  
  
“Three?” Cinda echoed.  
  
“Just so,” Galbraith said.  
  
“You speak in riddles, Earth scum,” Cinda growled.  
  
“I wouldn’t go tossing around the ‘Earth scum’ epithet quite so freely if I were you,” Galbraith said. “Your DNA test results reveal that you’re one hundred percent _Homo sapiens terrai_ – otherwise known as ‘Earth scum’ – yourself.”  
  
“You’re a liar!” Cinda said angrily.  
  
“Oh, yes,” Galbraith said. “I have to lie all the time in my line of work, but I’m telling you the truth about this.”  
  
“I don’t believe you!” Cinda said.  
  
“Tell me about your childhood on beautiful and picturesque Spectra,” Galbraith said.  
  
“I will not,” Cinda said.  
  
“What was your mother’s name? Where was she from?”  
  
“I am a loyal Galaxy Girl!”  
  
“For how long?”  
  
“For… For two years.”  
  
“And before that?”  
  
“I… will not tell you anything!”  
  
“Because you don’t know,” Galbraith said. “Your mind’s a blank, isn’t it, Lucy?”  
  
Cinda glared at Galbraith, her mind racing.  
  
“Do you want to know why you can’t remember, Lucy?” Galbraith asked.  
  
“No,” Cinda whispered, but the hot tears were forming in her eyes.  
  
She had no memories of childhood because she’d had no childhood to remember.  
  
She could not remember her parents because they didn’t exist.  
  
She had never gone to school, never had a sweetheart.  
  
The other Galaxy Girls hadn’t accepted her. Only Zira, who was young and naive enough that she either didn’t know or didn’t care, had been willing to be her friend.  
  
_All three of you… DNA test results…_  
  
“I’m a **clone** ,” she whispered.  
  
“Yes,” Galbraith said. “You are. We ran a Dinehart test and your telomeres show the tell-tale signs of cloning.”  
  
“Who?” she managed to say, her throat tight. “Who was I cloned from?”  
  
“A young racing driver named Lucy,” Galbraith said. “I have her file here. She was a friend of Jason Anderson’s. I imagine that’s why you were assigned to try and lure him away so you could abduct him. If you’d wanted to kill him, you could have done it during the race meet and vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t, so it follows you wanted something else.”  
  
“Lord Zoltar wished to make his acquaintance,” Cinda said.  
  
“Is that what they told you, Lucy?”  
  
“Cinda,” she said. “My name is Cinda.”  
  
“Cinda,” Galbraith said. “Lucy, Cinda… Lucinda. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Cinda.”  
  
“What happened to her?” Cinda asked.  
  
“We believe she died,” Galbraith said.  
  
“You believe?”  
  
“We haven’t been able to confirm it.”  
  
“She could be alive?”  
  
“She was very ill, very badly hurt. She turned to Zoltar in desperation, in an attempt to save her life. He betrayed her.”  
  
“And he made me.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“To be… a weapon.”  
  
“A tool.”  
  
Cinda closed her eyes and felt the tears spilling over. “I’ll tell you everything I know,” she said.


	58. Bradbury's Jar #322 - Restrict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson is moving house.

**Moving House - Part 1 of 2**  
  
The great thing about military house-moving, the former Chief of Galaxy Security reflected, was that all the movee had to do was pack up their personal effects and anything that they might not want the grunts handling, walk out and let the grunts do the rest.  
  
Anderson had rented the official Chief of Staff residence fully furnished. Ellizabeth Conway (the widow of Anderson’s predecessor Walter Conway) hadn’t wanted the furniture. In fact she hadn’t wanted most things that reminded her of Galaxy Security. Galaxy Security leased the house – which was ideally set up with all the security measures an ISO Chief of Staff would need – from the Conway Family Trust, then rented it out to the incumbent in the job.  
  
Another, younger Elizabeth – Galbraith, this time – was less than enthused with the idea of moving out of the comfortable home she and Roland had made for their family, but accepted the necessity and packed up to move into the official residence. The one area where she did put her foot down was that she was going to have all her own furniture, which meant that everything except Conway’s desk (which was hardwired with multiple layers of security) was to be put into storage.  
  
Mrs Galbraith was standing on the porch with David Anderson, watching the moving crews at work as they carried items out of the house and loaded them into a pair of white-liveried trucks with ISO license plates.  
  
“So,” Liz Galbraith said, “are you looking forward to moving to Powell? You’ll probably get on well with the neighbours,” she added with a smile.  
  
“Quite likely,” Anderson said, refusing to rise to the bait. “I really must thank you again for helping out the way you did, Liz. I’m at a loss when it comes to shopping for furniture… well, I’m at a loss when it comes to shopping, period.”  
  
“Oh, it was nothing,” Liz said with a wave of one elegant hand. “Besides, I’m taking it out of your hide now, aren’t I?”  
  
“If you say so,” Anderson said.  
  
“Then let’s begin,” Liz suggested.  
  
“Your primary, active security is your protection detail,” Anderson said. “From now on, Shay Alban will be Roly’s personal security coordinator. She has a squad of twelve to protect Roly, and Lieutenant Ashworth and her team will be attached to Shay’s roster so that they can continue to protect you and the kids. I’m really hoping that Zoltar won’t shift his focus away from me and onto Roly. To that end, I aim to keep annoying the living daylights out of the purple freak so that I’m the one who stays in the cross-hairs.”  
  
“I appreciate it,” Liz said. “I really do. More than I can say.”  
  
“Nobody wants to see you or the girls – especially the girls – in danger,” Anderson said.  
  
“How the hell do you manage it?” Liz wondered aloud.  
  
“Why’d you think I had a heart attack at forty-nine?” Anderson quipped.  
  
“I thought that was poison,” Liz said.  
  
“It was,” Anderson conceded. “Anyway, your second line of defence is 7-Zark-7. Have you ever spoken with Zark?”  
  
“Yes,” Liz said, her expression darkening. “He seems pleasant enough, but he gets a little… well… personal.”  
  
“Your family’s safety is now a priority for Zark,” Anderson said. “He’ll be keeping a close eye on all of you. It’s probably a good idea to sit the girls down and give them the basics. The entire house is wired so that Zark gets enhanced data back from every room if he needs it.”  
  
“Every room?” Liz echoed.  
  
“Yes, which is why it’s also a good idea to have Zark continue with my default settings: privacy blocks on all the bedrooms and bathrooms, to be lifted only with the authorisation of the Chief of Galaxy Security or his delegate, which would be Dee Kelly.”  
  
Liz took a deep breath. “I can see how people might need to… **restrict** certain activities.”  
  
“I’m afraid so, Liz. You also have the option of telling Zark to take a hike for a few hours if you and Roly want to be alone for a while.”  
  
“That’s good to know,” Liz said, folding her arms. She glanced sidelong at Anderson. “Heart attack at forty-nine, huh?”  
  
“I believe you know a good psychologist,” Anderson said.  
  
“Roly’s a forensic psychologist, not a clinician,” Liz pointed out.  
  
“Guess you’re screwed then,” Anderson said.  
  
“Very funny,” Liz said.  
  
“Yeah, I’ll be here all week,” Anderson said.  
  
“Actually, you won’t,” Liz said.  
  
“True.”  
  
“You’d better show me the security system,” Liz said.  
  
“Sure. The controls are in the hallway. Protocol is for you to choose your own individual access codes. All the usual caveats apply: no birthdates, nothing that anyone could guess…”  
  
“In other words, nothing I could easily remember.”  
  
“Of course. Galaxy Security likes to keep you on your toes. Never a dull moment.”  
  
“Dave?” Liz said.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Don’t quit your day job for a career in stand-up comedy.”  
  
“Damn. There goes one of my life’s great aspirations,” Anderson deadpanned.  
  
“Shut up and show me the security controls.”  
  
  
  
  
ISO Powell Base was on what the fire services liked to call the Rural Urban Interface, which was a fancy way of saying that it was on the outer fringe of Center City. Its large runways allowed for heavy air transport and even some star-ships to take off and land. Powell was like a small town, with its offices, facilities, laboratories, workshops and even a suburb which made up the accommodation sector for service personnel and their families.  
  
One of the most appealing features of ISO Powell for anyone who might be considered a target for Spectra was its security.  
  
Lieutenant Gareth Reilly guided the dark blue BMW sedan along Eisenhower Street, checking house numbers as he went. He found the property he was looking for and parked in the driveway next to a blue Nissan with the number ‘2’ painted on the side.  
  
“Here we are, sir,” Lieutenant Reilly said. He shut down the engine. “Uh, Director?”  
  
“Yes, Reilly?” Anderson prompted.  
  
“I should, um… familiarise myself with the residence, sir.”  
  
“Very good, Reilly,” Anderson said.  
  
“You don’t mind, sir?”  
  
“Reilly,” Anderson said as he unfastened his seat belt, “only half the things you’ve heard about me are true.”  
  
“I see, sir.” The young officer released his own seat belt and got out of the car. He hurried around to the rear passenger door and opened it so that Anderson could alight. “I’ll get your bags from the trunk, sir.”  
  
Reilly opened the trunk. As he did so, a thought occurred to him.  
  
“Director Anderson?” he ventured.  
  
“Yes, Lieutenant?”  
  
“Only half, sir?”  
  
The barest flicker of a smile crossed Anderson’s face. “I have it on good authority that finding out which half is which is the interesting part.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“I’ll get the bags, Lieutenant,” Anderson said as he walked around the car to the trunk. “You do the security thing. Make sure there are no assassins lurking in the shrubbery.”  
  
“Oh.” Reilly seemed somewhat taken aback. “Er, yes, sir.”  
  
Anderson reached for his bags. “You’d been told that I’m resistant to having a security detail,” he recounted. “You’d heard that I regard my security detail as a necessary evil at the best of times and a source of coffee at worst, yes?”  
  
“Um…” Reilly swallowed. “Well…”  
  
“There was a time when that was true,” Anderson said.  
  
“Not any more, sir?” Reilly said carefully.  
  
“Not any more, Lieutenant.”  
  
“I see, sir.” Reilly appeared to cheer up considerably. “I’ll just go and check the house.”  
  
“You do that,” Anderson said.  
  
As Reilly headed for the house, Anderson retrieved two suitcases and turned to go indoors. He was just in time to see Mark emerge from the house in full G-Force battle gear and to see Reilly snap to attention and salute so fast he almost knocked his own hat off.  
  
Even though Reilly had his back to him, Anderson made a valiant effort not to smile.  
  
“Commander!” Reilly said, standing rigidly with his arm still raised.  
  
Mark returned the salute, allowing the junior officer to lower his hand. “At ease,” Mark said.  
  
“Yes, sir!”  
  
Jason appeared in the doorway and Mark took pity on the protective services officer. “Will you relax?” he said. “We don’t bite. Ever. I swear. We were just conducting a security sweep of the house.”  
  
“I see, sir.”  
  
“And since you probably need to familiarise yourself with the layout, you go right on ahead and do whatever you need to do, okay?”  
  
“Yes, sir!”  
  
Mark watched as Jason stood aside to let Reilly in through the front door. Both he and Jason converged on Anderson’s car and took the remaining bags and cartons out of the trunk. “So,” Mark said, “what’s he going to do if he’s confronted with a Spectra agent? Salute ‘em to death?”  
  
“It’s his second day on the job, Mark,” Anderson said. “Give the guy a break.”  
  
“This is your safety – maybe even your life – that we’re talking about here,” Mark said. “I’m not inclined to cut anyone a lot of slack.” As the three made their way into the house, Mark played his trump card. “What would Al say?”  
  
“I had her go over all the files as part of the selection process,” Anderson said, “so she’d probably say that it’s understandable that any young ISO officer would be overwhelmed at coming face to face with G-Force for the first time.”  
  
“Oh, come on!” Mark said. “We’re not that intimidating!”  
  
“You think?” Anderson countered.  
  
“Okay, so maybe we attract attention –”  
  
“Mark, you’re G-Force. Overwhelming people is what you do.”  
  
“Maybe…” Mark conceded with ill grace.  
  
“And anyway, you can always train the new squad like you did the Chief of Staff’s detail.”  
  
“I suppose,” Mark said.  
  
“Just try not to break them,” Anderson said.  
  
“Aw,” Jason said, “you never let us have any fun.”  
  
  
 _To be continued..._


	59. Bradbury's Jar #323 - Lure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zark sends a housewarming gift.

**Moving House - Part 2 of 2**  
  
A white ISO delivery truck pulled up at the kerb and a couple of Powell’s Army grunts alighted from the cab. They stared at Mark and Jason, then accessed the back of the truck and carried a large wooden crate down the driveway.  
  
Jason stalked over to them and read the large black lettering on the side of the crate. The two privates hurriedly put the crate down, stood to attention and saluted.  
  
To his credit, Jason refrained from rolling his eyes and returned the gesture. “As you were,” he said, and grinned. “Oh, Director? Looks like Zark’s sent you a housewarming gift!”  
  
“Oh, wow!” Mark said. “He’s sent you garden gnomes!”  
  
Anderson froze. “What?”  
  
“Says right here on the crate, ‘GARDEN GNOMES: DANGER – LIVE AMMUNITION,’” Mark read aloud.  
  
Anderson put down the suitcases and walked over to the crate. “No way,” he said.  
  
The two Army privates saluted again. Anderson and Mark responded in kind.  
  
“This could get repetitive,” Mark muttered out of one corner of his mouth.  
  
“Uh, sir?” One of the delivery personnel proffered an electronic clipboard. “Sign here, please?”  
  
Anderson took the clipboard and scrawled his signature with the stylus that was attached by way of a much-mended piece of string. “Put it out back, please,” he said.  
  
As the Army privates complied, Anderson, Mark and Jason returned to pick up the bags they’d been carrying and headed back to the house.  
  
“Don’t you want your garden gnomes to take pride of place on the front lawn?” Jason teased. “I wonder what designs he’s used this time? Maybe a cute little scientist gnome with a lab coat and a test tube full of acid? Or a little fishing gnome with a rod and a **lure** on the end? Or maybe a ninja gnome with a hand full of shuriken…”  
  
Anderson glared at Jason, who chuckled and went inside to put the suitcases away.  
  
When the crate was prised open, there was indeed a scientist gnome, but instead of a test tube full of acid, it was holding a Tesla coil, which, according to the user manual thoughtfully provided by 7-Zark-7, could shoot multiple taser electrodes and deliver enough of a charge to drop most adult humans.  
  
The ‘Great White Hunter’ in the safari suit and the pith helmet had a real rifle which fired .17 calibre rounds.  
  
Zark had also branched out, however, with a garden Buddha that contained a powerful scanning device and something that looked like a small blue phone booth which disguised an sonic pulse generator similar to the one in Mark’s boomerang.  
  
“This one kinda looks like you,” Jason said, holding up the mad scientist. “At least it looks like you do in my head.”  
  
“Shut up, Jason,” Anderson growled.  
  
“I’ll always think of you like this,” Jason said happily.  
  
“I’m going to unpack,” Anderson said, and left Mark and Jason with the garden gnomes.  
  
Jason chuckled and picked up the blue phone booth. “’Police Call Box,’” he read. “What’s this supposed to be?”  
  
“No idea,” Mark said. “Do you have to wind him up like that?”  
  
“Yes,” Jason said. “Yes, I do. These are garden gnomes, Mark! Our boss is going to have garden gnomes out the front of his house!”  
  
“Lots of people have garden gnomes,” Mark pointed out.  
  
“Oh, come on,” Jason said. “This is pure gold.”  
  
“Just remember physics,” Mark warned.  
  
“What?” Jason prompted.  
  
“Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Quit winding him up about the garden gnomes, or you may regret it.”  
  
“Hey,” Jason said. “I like to live dangerously.”  
  
  
  
  
Two weeks later, Jason returned home after a mission to find his trailer surrounded by garden gnomes.


	60. Bradbury's Jar #324 - Needle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people are just trouble-magnets.

“You’re absolutely sure you’re okay?” Mark pressed. He listened to what sounded like an exasperated sigh at the other end of the comm channel.  
  
_“We’re fine,”_ Director Anderson said. _“Really. Don’t divert to pick us up. Keep searching for that base!”_  
  
“The car breaking down could’ve been sabotage,” Mark pointed out. “Besides which, it’s the middle of winter, it’s getting dark and the temperature’s falling fast. I really think we should divert.”  
  
_“Mark, I’m ordering you not to. Maintain your search pattern.”_  
  
“I can override that order if I think it’s in the best interests of the Federation!” Mark said.  
  
_“Mark,”_ Anderson said _, “I’m standing by the side of a road in the middle of nowhere with two armed security officers and my own sidearm. It’s in hand!”_  
  
“This is an off-world mission,” Mark said. “Different rules. We’re diverting. Get over it.” He closed the channel. “Tiny, bring us around and descend.”  
  
“Big ten, Commander,” Tiny Harper said with a shrug.  
  
“Mark,” Princess said, “I hate to be the fly in the ointment, but I’m picking up an anomaly on the geophys’ scan.”  
  
“How much of an anomaly” Mark asked.  
  
“Enough of one that I’m bringing it to your attention, Commander,” Princess said. “It might be nothing, but it’s the most significant one we’ve picked up so far.”  
  
“It’s not another iron-age burial mound, is it?”  
  
“Wrong shape and way bigger. Come take a look.”  
  
Mark studied the readout at the tactical station. “Regular shapes, pretty deep… this could be it. Okay. Princess, send the coordinates to the nav system and let’s go check it out.”  
  
  
  
  
On the ground, in the figurative middle of the proverbial nowhere in question (although the people who lived there might have argued the point) G-Force Director Anderson glared at his palm unit. “Did he just tell me to get over it?” he muttered.  
  
“Sorry. Wasn’t listening,” Lieutenant Colonel Jones lied, keeping her expression neutral.  
  
“Didn’t hear a thing, sir,” Lieutenant Maxwell said, avoiding eye contact.  
  
"It's getting dark,” Anderson said. “Let’s see if there’s anyone at that farm shed over there. We can settle in some place warm, call for someone to collect the vehicle and let the Ambassador know that we won’t be able to make the meeting.”  
  
  
  
  
Ing rubbed irritably at his nose, which was tickling horribly. "Why do we always get stuck with the worst jobs in the entire army?" he grumbled.  
  
"Could be worse," Harek pointed out.  
  
"How?" Ing wanted to know. "We're inside a haystack." He sneezed and fumbled for a tissue. He blew his nose loudly.  
  
"Remember the time we were stationed in a bolthole underneath that camel stable on Alpha Three?"  
  
Ing put the tissue in the disposal bin. "Okay," he conceded. "It could be worse... except I'm not allergic to camels, but I'm pretty sure I'm allergic to... to... _aaaahh.... aaaahhhh - CHOO_!" He sniffled. "Hay," he finished, then pulled another three tissues from the box and blew his nose again.  
  
"Keep it down," Harek warned. "We got company coming."  
  
"Where?" Ing leaned over Harek's shoulder and sniffed again. Harek gave him a look of distaste.  
  
"Three people crossing the field, headed straight for us. There's no ID ping so if they're ours, they're not carrying transponders."  
  
"Call up a visual," Ing suggested, and covered his nose with another handful of tissues to muffle the sneeze.  
  
"Too dark to make out much detail," Harek said. "These old scopes are useless when the infra-red goes on the fritz! Looks like two males, one female."  
  
"And we're in a haystack," Ing said, rolling his eyes. He smirked. "This could be one for the boys back at the base." He picked up a headset, settled it over his head, and plugged it in to an audio jack.  
  
Three shadowy shapes approached on the screen. The audio pick-ups transmitted the crunch of their feet in the stubble, then the video screen turned to snow as Harek tried to zoom in.  
  
"That's as good as it gets," Harek muttered.  
  
"... _Isn't exactly what I would have envisaged if anybody had told me I'd be taking a walk in the moonlight with you this evening_ ," a male voice said. It sounded like a weary attempt at injecting humour into a difficult situation.  
  
" _I'm not going to ask what you_ would _have envisaged_ ," a female voice replied. It was oddly accented, with rounded vowels and consonants that had edges like a bread knife.  
  
" _That's probably a wise move_ ," the male voice said.  
  
" _Anyway, the last time I walked anywhere in the moonlight with you, the Rigan Embassy got demolished_."  
  
Ing and Harek exchanged glances. "They're offworlders!" Ing breathed.  
  
" _It wasn't demolished_ ," the male voice corrected. " _It was just... damaged. A lot_."  
  
" _David, the roof fell in and one of the walls collapsed after we left_."  
  
" _So sue me for being rough on buildings._ "  
  
" _As I recall, the Rigans_ did _sue_."  
  
" _They sued the agency. You'll also recall that we settled out of court_."  
  
" _How do I resist your charm?_ " The tone of the woman's voice softened to one of fond exasperation.  
  
Ing sneezed. Harek elbowed him in the ribs.  
  
" _What was that?_ " another male voice asked.  
  
" _Probably a bird_ ," the female said dismissively.  
  
" _A bird?”_ echoed the second male. _“Uh, ma’am, It sounded like someone sneezing_."  
  
" _Birds sneeze. My Uncle Ethel had a scarlet macaw that developed a smoker's cough_."  
  
_“Wait a second,”_ the first male voice said. "Uncle _Ethel?_ "  
  
" _Well, more of a second cousin, really._ "  
  
" _Right... Um... Al?_ "  
  
" _Yes?_ "  
  
" _Is this what I think it is?_ "  
  
" _That depends. What do you think it is?_ "  
  
" _I think,_ " the male voice said thoughtfully, " _it's a pitchfork_."  
  
Ing and Harek exchanged horrified glances, then leapt for their lives as four rusty iron prongs hit the scanner unit and sent it crashing to the ground. They tore their headsets from their heads and scrabbled to get as far away from the walls of the haystack as they could.  
  
"Yep," said the male voice, now clearly audible through the hay. "That's a pitchfork, all right."  
  
"Agreed," the female voice remarked. " _This_ , however, is a point four-oh magnum."  
  
The haystack seemed to explode and implode at the same time. Ing and Harek dived out as the bullets started flying.  
  
Ing got slowly to his knees. In the light of the full moon, he could clearly see that the three offworlders were armed. The shorter of the two men was wearing a Galaxy Security uniform. The light also meant that the taller of the two men was instantly recognisable. Ing swallowed the lump in his throat. "S-security Chief Anderson?" Ing breathed.  
  
Anderson gave Ing the kind of look that suggested he was making a very unpleasant list of things that could happen to Ing in the immediate future. "Not any more," he said. "It’s ‘G-Force Director Anderson’ these days. Only half the things you've heard about me are true," he said. "The interesting part," he added with a smile that Ing found fundamentally disturbing, "is deciding which half."  
  
Terror curled slow, clammy fingers around Ing's vitals and squeezed.  
  
"Both of you," the uniformed man said, "hands on your head." He relieved Ing and Harek of their guns and tossed them over to where Anderson could pick them up while the blonde woman kept her own weapon trained on the prisoners. "Now, right hand stays put, left arm out to one side." The Galaxy Security lieutenant returned his own gun to a shoulder holster under his tunic and drew a utility knife. At Ing's stricken expression, he grabbed his left sleeve. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "Not unless you give me any trouble." He cut the stitching and pulled the sleeve from his shirt. "Hands behind your back," he ordered, and bound Ing’s wrists with the sleeve. Ing was  frisked, had his own knife confiscated, then was pushed forward so that he sprawled uncomfortably on his belly while the G-Sec officer repeated the process with Harek.  
  
"Now that we're all cosy," Anderson said, "let's start by introducing ourselves, then we can break the ice by telling each other where we're from. You know who I am. This nice lady is Colonel Jones and she'll stay nice just as long as you cooperate. You’ve met Lieutenant Maxwell. Now, we're from a place called Earth. I'm sure you've heard of it, little blue planet, gets invaded a lot?" He pointed his gun at Ing's head. "Tell me all about yourselves," he invited, "starting with the location of your base."  
  
Ing swallowed. Anderson was smiling that disturbing little smile again, the one that seemed to imply that if he didn't like the answers, Ing's family would be getting sympathy cards any day now.  
  
"Don't tell 'em anything!" Harek growled. He yelped as a bullet kicked up the dirt next to his left arm. "On the other hand," Harek reconsidered, his voice quavering, "maybe we shouldn't be hasty..."  
  
  
  
  
“Sorry, Mark,” Princess said. “It looked significant.”  
  
“It did,” Mark agreed, “and you were right to flag it.”  
  
“Well,” Jason said with a shrug, “it isn’t every day we discover an ancient temple complex that _doesn’t_ turn out to be a Spectra base.”  
  
  
  
  
"Thank you," Anderson said. "That's extremely interesting."  
  
Ing and Harek squirmed uncomfortably on the ground. Ing sneezed again.  
  
"Perhaps," Jones suggested, "we should send Zoltar a note, complimenting him on how helpful his soldiers are."  
  
"Don't do that!" Harek pleaded. "He'll have us boiled in oil!"  
  
"Or worse!" Ing added.  
  
"Just take us prisoner," Harek suggested. "We won't be any trouble!"  
  
"We'll be good," Ing promised.  
  
"The sensible thing to do," Jones said, "would be to kill them."  
  
"But then you'd have to bury us!" Ing argued.  
  
"They can dig the holes themselves," Jones countered, addressing Anderson.  
  
"But we can't fill them in once we're dead," Ing babbled. "You'd get your nice suit all dirty... and... and, you'd get a run in your stockings... and... and you'd... you'd wreck your shoes! They look expensive... are they designer?"  
  
"He's got a point, there, Al," Anderson conceded. "I really don't feel up for burying anyone right now."  
  
"You're not seriously thinking of keeping them alive!" Jones put one hand on her hip.  
  
"Dead bodies have a way of being found," Anderson pointed out.  
  
"It isn't as though killing these two would be a crime," Jones said. "Under the Proxima Convention, prisoners can be legally executed if their numbers are such that they constitute a risk to the unit holding them!"  
  
"Ing, is that true?" Harek whispered urgently.  
  
"I don't know!" Ing hissed back.  
  
"I know the Convention allows for the culling of prisoners if they can't be safely managed," Anderson said, "but I think we can deal with these two."  
  
"Oh, you can," Ing told him fervently. "You can manage us in complete safety, no trouble at all. We're probably the two most manageable soldiers in the history of the Spectran armed forces, I swear!"  
  
"Oh, yes!" Harek agreed. "Very manageable! We've been in prison lots of times!"  
  
"You have?" Anderson's attention was suddenly focussed on Harek. It was the kind of focus usually found on laser targeting systems.  
  
"Military detention," Harek confessed. "You know... the brig?"  
  
"So you _are_ trouble," Jones surmised.  
  
"Only for our superiors!" Ing insisted. "We're model prisoners! We have plenty of experience!"  
  
“I’m pretty sure we can manage ‘em, sirs,” Lieutenant Maxwell said.  
  
Anderson and Jones exchanged glances. "Al," Anderson said, "don't kill them. That's an order."  
  
"As you wish, Director." Jones' expression and icy tone made it clear that she was complying against her better judgement.  
  
"Let's get them secure,” Anderson said.  
  
Lieutenant Maxwell spoke up again: “We could put them in the hay shed. It should be safe enough."  
  
"All right," Jones agreed, "but no jokes about haylofts or the connotations that go with it."  
  
“The thought never even entered my mind,” Anderson said, unconvincingly.  
  
  
  
  
Ing sneezed again and sighed. He was securely bound to one of the loft supports in the hay shed, back to back with Harek, while the Earthlings bickered among themselves in the loft overhead.  
  
"I still think we should kill them and keep moving to get as far away from that base as we can!" Jones said. Ing could just make out her words. She had lowered her voice, but not enough. Those sharp-edged tones carried in the night.  
  
"Bertie," Anderson said again, "will you quit being such an extremist? We can just wait here."  
  
“And if they miss a sked call and their friends come looking for them?” Jones argued.  
  
"We’re in an ideal position," Anderson said. “High ground, good visibility, clear line of sight. It’s better than being caught out in the open. Speaking of which, do you see anything, Josh?”  
  
“All clear, sir,” Lieutenant Maxwell said from his post by the window. “The farmhouse looks deserted but there are cattle in the adjacent fields. It’s all pretty quiet down there.”  
  
Calm settled over the hay shed for a few moments.  
  
" _Uncle_ Ethel?" Anderson said, breaking the silence.  
  
"Hmmm? Oh, yes,” Jones said. “He had this scarlet macaw --"  
  
"Uncle _Ethel_?"  
  
"Ethel felt that gender reassignment was no reason to justify changing your name."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"He taught the macaw to recite left-wing social protest slogans."  
  
"Al?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I’m sorry I asked."  
  
Ing sat in the hay, sniffling softly. Behind him, Harek had fallen asleep and was snoring. The Earthlings were still bickering. Ing tried to relax. He'd rest a little, then he'd find a way to get free of his improvised bonds and go for help. He could warn the base commander, and maybe even come out of this whole sorry mess as a hero…  
  
Stars flashed before his eyes.  
  
Which was all wrong, because he was _inside_ the hay shed.  
  
  
  
  
"Ing?" Harek mumbled. "Ing, wake up!"  
  
Ing woke up, sneezed and spat hay. He was cold, and his head throbbed. "Wha'?"  
  
"Wake up!"  
  
"I'm awake... oooohhhh, my head..."  
  
"Ing, I think they're gone. They must've knocked us out and then left us here. Alive."  
  
"They have?" Ing brightened, despite the chill in the night air. "We can see about getting out of here!"  
  
"I don't know about that, Ing," Harek said.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because our clothes are gone, our hands are still tied behind our backs, and a bull stuck its head in here a few minutes ago. A _big_ , grumpy bull."  
  
Ing's anguished cry drifted across the field, but only the bull heard him.  
  
  
  
  
"You have a decided sadistic streak, you know that?" Aboard the _Phoenix,_ high above where Ing was discovering the extent of his misfortune, Anderson was certain Jones was looking downright cheerful.  
  
"I most certainly do not," Jones said, "and if you ever call me Bertie again, I shall take the rule book and --" She outlined her plan.  
  
"How else was I supposed to let you know I was lying?"  
  
"It was _obvious_ you were lying!"  
  
Tiny would normally have engaged the autopilot and made himself comfortable at the flight console, but with Anderson and Jones at the tactical station and Josh Maxwell leaning against the rear bulkhead behind him, he didn't dare. He sat with his back straight, shoulders squared, the very picture of alertness while the _Phoenix_ described slow, lazy orbits, waiting to hear from the rest of the G-Force team down on the ground.  
  
In the absence of anything better to do, his acute hearing was focussing on the available sounds, which were coming from the quiet conversation taking place at the tactical station.  
  
Anderson and Jones fell silent for a few moments.  
  
"Penny for your thoughts?" This was Anderson.  
  
"I'm thinking about how to word my report."  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"The part with the Spectrans in the haystack."  
  
"We found two enemy soldiers engaged in covert intelligence-gathering operations, took them prisoner and interrogated them."  
  
"I was actually thinking about that business with the pitchfork. I'm not at all sure you're supposed to do that sort of thing with farming implements."  
  
"Al, we're at war."  
  
"Yes, but what if you'd impaled someone?"  
  
"Then there would have only been one Spectran to interrogate instead of two."  
  
"That's a bit callous, don't you think?"  
  
"You were the one who kept saying we should kill them."  
  
"Not with a pitchfork! And anyway, that was all part of your tactical ruse. I don't believe in physical cruelty."  
  
"I see. That would be why you threatened to cause me grievous bodily harm with a copy of the Officers' Handbook."  
  
"I was under duress," Jones said. "You were being particularly annoying, and I'd ended my day standing in the middle of a field waving someone else's underwear at a large farm animal! And how am I supposed to explain _that_ for the record?"  
  
"I thought it was fortuitous that the short one was wearing red flannel long johns, myself."  
  
"Well he isn't _now_ , is he?"  
  
Tiny began to think that Jones' report might make intriguing reading.  
  
"Anyway," Anderson reasoned, "any number of men would be delighted to have you waving their underw-- _ow_! Al, that was my foot."  
  
"I'll aim higher, next time," she warned.  
  
"I thought you said you didn't believe in physical cruelty."  
  
"I'm prepared to make an exception."  
  
“ _Tiny, you got ears on_?” Mark called over the comm channel.  
  
“Right here, Commander,” Tiny replied. “You ready for pickup?”  
  
“ _We sure are_ ,” Mark said. “ _Rendezvous to the south east of the base!_ ”  
  
“On my way!” Tiny said, and trimmed the _Phoenix_ for descent.  
  
  
  
  
“Keep up, you idiot!” Ing cried, running for the fence. He and Harek had finally managed to get free, found the remains of the uniforms under a hay bale in the loft, dressed and were making a run for it. Ing could feel a sneeze coming on and tried to suppress it as he reached for the nearest fence post and vaulted. His foot caught in the sagging, rusted wire and he fell heavily on the other side of the field.  
  
Into something soft.  
  
And wet.  
  
Clutching his red long johns and with the bull in thundering pursuit, Harek managed to clamber through the ancient three-strand fence and kept running.  
  
The bull pulled up to a stop and snorted angrily.  
  
Harek doubled back to where Ing was lying. “Ing?” he ventured. “Are you okay?”  
  
From the depths of the cow-pat into which he’d fallen, Ing started to take a deep breath, and choked on the stink of manure. “The gods hate me,” he groaned.  
  
A distant detonation shook the ground.  
  
The bull uttered a frightened bellow, turned and ran away. In the distant farmhouse, lights flicked on.  
  
Ing squelched to his feet. “That… that sounded like the base going up,” he rasped.  
  
“Oh, _ignots_ ,” Harek breathed.  
  
  
  
  
“There’s just no way you can avoid trouble, is there?” Mark said as he stepped off the lift platform onto the bridge of the _Phoenix_. Jason, Princess and Keyop followed. Jones vacated the chair at the tactical station, then she and Anderson joined Lieutenant Maxwell at the rear bulkhead.  
  
“We got the location of the base for you,” Anderson pointed out.  
  
“We would’ve found it eventually!” Mark said.  
  
“You were looking for a **needle** in a haystack,” Anderson said. “We found the haystack. Literally.”  
  
“Man, I give up!” Mark declared. “Tiny, set a course for ISO Planetary HQ so we can file our report and go home.”


	61. Bradbury's Jar #325 - Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is the Blackbird dead? Is the Blackbird alive? Will the act of observing the Blackbird determine its state? Is it, to wit, Shroedinger's Blackbird, or is it a Pythonian Blackbird?

The G-Force team stalked through the carnage that had been the entrance to the Spectra base.  
  
Many of the occupants had been caught in the blast as they fled, dying within metres of survival.  
  
They lay, still and silent in the shadow of the _Phoenix_ , blood staining the **green** and brown uniforms, blood trickling from ears, from mouths, from noses.  
  
Tiny, who had landed his bird and joined the team on the ground, shuddered, his innate compassion stirring. “Some of ‘em are still alive,” he said dully.  
  
“The medical teams’ll arrive soon,” Mark said.  
  
“Not soon enough for some of them,” Jason said, his expression dark.  
  
Princess was silent. She held Keyop’s hand and stood motionless near the nosewheel of the G-Force Command Ship.  
  
“It’s war,” Keyop said in a small voice. “They would’ve killed us without a moment’s thought.”  
  
“I know,” Princess said.  
  
“Hey!” Tiny’s shout floated across the scene. “Mark! I need you over here!”  
  
Mark motioned for Jason to follow him and stalked through the field of bodies to where Tiny was standing. When he reached the big pilot’s side, he drew in his breath through his teeth. “A Blackbird,” he murmured. “Is he alive?”  
  
Tiny made eye contact and nodded almost imperceptibly. “Hard to say,” he said.  
  
“What do you think, Jason?” Mark asked. “Is he breathing?”  
  
“’E’s dead,” Jason said, doing a passable imitation of John Cleese.  
  
“’No, no,” Tiny protested. “’E’s just resting.”  
  
“That’s what I call a dead Blackbird,” Jason said, silently drawing his gun.  
  
“’No, he’s stunned,” Tiny said, doing likewise with his own weapon and training it on the prone figure in black.  
  
“Stunned?” Jason echoed.  
  
“Spectrans stun easily,” Tiny said.  
  
“That Blackbird,” Jason insisted, “is definitely deceased.”  
  
“He’s probably, ah, pining for the fjords,” Tiny said.  
  
“ _Pining for the fjords_? Do they even _have_ fjords on Spectra? Look, G-5, he’s not pining, he’s passed on! This Blackbird is no more! He has ceased to be! He's expired and gone to meet his maker! He's a stiff! Bereft of life, he rests in peace! His metabolic processes are now history! He's off the twig! He's kicked the bucket, he's shuffled off his mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisible! He's frickin' snuffed it!... THIS IS AN _EX-BLACKBIRD_!”  
  
Mark, who had been observing the exchange with a sardonic smile, shrugged. “Well, why don’t you make sure, Jason? A couple of rounds ought to do it, especially if you remove his helmet first. End of argument.”  
  
The Blackbird uttered a groan of protest. “I surrender to the Federation!” he rasped.  
  
“Yeah,” Mark said, “thought you would.”


	62. Bradbury's Jar #326 - Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Antarean Flu couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

Zoltar staggered. His head was pounding and his vision was blurring. The meeting with his generals had been particularly annoying, but he couldn't quite remember precisely what it was that had annoyed him. It was probably, he mused irritably, just a general sense of generals being generally annoying. He waited impatiently for the room to empty of all but himself and Mala, then pushed himself upward out of the throne. The room swam and Spectra's penultimate ruler tottered on legs that ached with fatigue.  
  
"Zoltar?" Mala's voice seemed to come from some distance away. "Zoltar, what's wrong?"  
  
Zoltar's knees buckled and he was saved from hitting the floor by his sister's small yet capable hands catching him. She took his weight without complaint and helped him find his **balance**.  
  
"I have a headache," Zoltar complained.  
  
"You'd best sit down." Mala eased her brother back into the great throne of Spectra. She glanced around to be sure that there was nobody else in the room, then eased the imposing purple mask from Zoltar's face. Zoltar's face was pale, built narrow with a long jaw and high cheekbones. His vivid green eyes were unfocussed and his forehead was hot and clammy to Mala's touch. "You have a fever," Mala said. "Can you walk to your quarters if I help you?"  
  
"I think so." Zoltar took a shuddering breath and sneezed into gloved hands that came away slimy with mucus. "By the Spirit, that's disgusting! I'm sorry, Mala."  
  
"Take the gloves off, then let's try to get you back on your feet."  
  
  
  
  
Some twenty minutes later, the Lord High Physician was washing his hands. "Antarean Flu, I'm afraid," he said, wrinkling his nose. "I'll prescribe some antivirals, but Antarean Flu is notoriously resistant to everything we throw at it. Did you have the vaccine, my lord Zoltar?"  
  
"Not this year," Zoltar confessed. "We lost our main supplier when G-Force shut down the Urgosian space pirates and the shipment meant for us got diverted to the emergency we had on Sigma Major. I had the vaccination last year, should I not still be immune?"  
  
"One might think so, sire," the Physician said, "but it would seem not. Most likely the virus has mutated. You must rest, take plenty of fluids and keep your fever down."  
  
"If there is nothing else for it," Zoltar sighed. "Mala, I am afraid you will have to shoulder the burden for a while."  
  
Mala paused in the act of blowing her nose on a tissue. "Of course, Zolta-- ah - ah - ah-CHOO!" Mala gasped for air and sank into the nearest chair, clutching at the tissue in her hand. "Oh, no. Just how contagious is this flu?"  
  
"Very, I'm afraid," said the Lord High Physician.  
  
  
  
  
Three days later, the Great Spirit of Spectra was fretting alone in its Presence Chamber. The only person to visit had been a junior deputy from the office of the Lord High Physician, who had regretfully informed the Great Light of Wisdom that eighty percent of the population of the Palace had come down with Antarean Flu.  
  
The Luminous One hissed in annoyance as it lost yet another game of computer Solitaire.


End file.
